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61097_S3UO0IYW_6 | 61097_S3UO0IYW_6_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | What is significant about the “secret” Retief unveils about the Soetti?
(A) They're easier to take down than they thought, meaning they can stand up to the Soetti.
(B) The Soetti are going to exact revenge on the crew now that he's exposed their secret.
(C) They don't have the right to be asking for papers, making their presence on board illegal.
(D) They're easy to bluff against. They'll believe what the captain tells them.
| {
"answer_start": [
78
],
"text": [
"They're easier to take down than they thought, meaning they can stand up to the Soetti."
]
} |
|
61097_S3UO0IYW_7 | 61097_S3UO0IYW_7_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | Why are the Soetti allowed to board the ship?
(A) They need transport to Jorgenson’s Worlds as well.
(B) They need to check the papers of each passenger, so the caption allows them to do so.
(C) The Soetti aren’t - the captain fears them and they are illegally boarding.
(D) The captain and Mr. Tony are in business with them.
| {
"answer_start": [
280
],
"text": [
"The captain and Mr. Tony are in business with them."
]
} |
|
61097_S3UO0IYW_8 | 61097_S3UO0IYW_8_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | What was Skaw's importance?
(A) He was the connection between Mr. Tony, the captain, and the Soetti's business.
(B) Unlike other Soetti, he was brittle and easily killed.
(C) He didn't have much importance. When the Soetti was presented with his body, they didn't care.
(D) He was the one to check the validity of each passenger's papers.
| {
"answer_start": [
35
],
"text": [
"He was the connection between Mr. Tony, the captain, and the Soetti's business."
]
} |
|
61097_S3UO0IYW_9 | 61097_S3UO0IYW_9_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | Why did the captain try to change course away from Jorgenon's Worlds?
(A) Jorgenson's World doesn't have enough trade value to warrant the trip.
(B) Retief killed Skaw, and it angered Mr. Tony, who ordered him to change course.
(C) He needs to get away from the Soettie after Skaw's death.
(D) He wants to drop Retief off at Alabaster instead.
| {
"answer_start": [
153
],
"text": [
"Retief killed Skaw, and it angered Mr. Tony, who ordered him to change course."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_1 | 63442_D519INBY_1_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | Why is Acoustix so valuable?
(A) Acoustix can be sold at a high price.
(B) It's an ore that can only be found in one place.
(C) It helps Martain people regain their ability to communicate.
(D) It's an abundant ore that Earth people sell.
| {
"answer_start": [
134
],
"text": [
"It helps Martain people regain their ability to communicate."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_2 | 63442_D519INBY_2_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | What is true about the Red Spot Fever?
(A) It is contagious, and it is affecting nearly every worker.
(B) There is no known cure for it.
(C) It makes people vanish into thin air.
(D) Infra-red rays influence people, and they end up lost in the Baldric.
| {
"answer_start": [
191
],
"text": [
"Infra-red rays influence people, and they end up lost in the Baldric."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_3 | 63442_D519INBY_3_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | Why does Grannie fool Billy as well when she rides away with Park?
(A) She didn't want Billy to know where they were heading.
(B) She had to pretend she was replaced by a cockatoo, and make it convincing.
(C) She didn't want Antler to know about the cockatoo images and how they worked.
(D) She didn't. It was one of the cockatoo images.
| {
"answer_start": [
299
],
"text": [
"She didn't. It was one of the cockatoo images."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_4 | 63442_D519INBY_4_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | What gives away the location of the lens?
(A) When Billy enters the barracks, he realizes he's being hit by Red Fever.
(B) Workers were showing their first symptoms from working in the mines.
(C) The location was written in the Fever Victims file.
(D) Workers were showing their first symptoms after being in the barracks.
| {
"answer_start": [
260
],
"text": [
"Workers were showing their first symptoms after being in the barracks."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_5 | 63442_D519INBY_5_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | Why does the party run into duplicates of themselves?
(A) It's the Red Fever influencing their perception.
(B) As Grannie Annie says, it's a form of mass hypnosis.
(C) They're a mirage, a result of the Baldric.
(D) They're the cockatoos, copying their appearance.
| {
"answer_start": [
223
],
"text": [
"They're the cockatoos, copying their appearance."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_6 | 63442_D519INBY_6_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | What is so unique about the cockatoos on this planet?
(A) They are able to copy speech.
(B) They live in abundance in the Baldric, despite it being a dangerous area.
(C) They are identical to Earth parrots, despite being on a different planet.
(D) They are able to physically mimic any picture.
| {
"answer_start": [
256
],
"text": [
"They are able to physically mimic any picture."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_7 | 63442_D519INBY_7_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | How did Grannie Annie save the workers?
(A) She found the location they all went to and helped them navigate back.
(B) She removed the lens from the barracks that was making them sick.
(C) She pretended to contract the fever and fooled Antler Park.
(D) She discovered that ultraviolet could reverse the effects on them and used it to cure them.
| {
"answer_start": [
261
],
"text": [
"She discovered that ultraviolet could reverse the effects on them and used it to cure them."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_8 | 63442_D519INBY_8_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | What does the viviscreen do?
(A) It plays a recording of something. In this case, it's of Grannie, Xarnal, and Jimmy Baker.
(B) It's stationary, and can only be used to view one place and time.
(C) It brings up a 3-D image of the person you are looking at and allows you to watch and hear them as if you were there.
(D) Like a computer or television screen, it allows you to see another person on the other end.
| {
"answer_start": [
204
],
"text": [
"It brings up a 3-D image of the person you are looking at and allows you to watch and hear them as if you were there."
]
} |
|
63442_D519INBY_9 | 63442_D519INBY_9_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | What main motivation did Antler Park have to leave the lens in the barracks?
(A) He didn't fully understand the effects of the infra-red rays and wanted to see what it was capable of.
(B) He knew the value of this spot for Acoustix, and wanted to run the Jimmy Baker out.
(C) He was afraid of Grannie Annie discovering his plot and tried to get rid of her.
(D) He had struck a large load of Acoustix and wanted to hide the evidence.
| {
"answer_start": [
192
],
"text": [
"He knew the value of this spot for Acoustix, and wanted to run the Jimmy Baker out."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_1 | 50893_71BYF8M1_1_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | What initially alerted people to the fault line and the onset of problems?
(A) Geologists were already aware of its presence and had been watching it.
(B) They investigated what they thought was a forest fire, only to find it was sediment and dust.
(C) The land had become so dry it was a cause of concern.
(D) Newspapers had established the connections of the 3 faults.
| {
"answer_start": [
159
],
"text": [
"They investigated what they thought was a forest fire, only to find it was sediment and dust."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_2 | 50893_71BYF8M1_2_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | What reason did the newspaper have to focus on the possible active volcano theory and not the opinion of the geographer?
(A) There wasn't enough evidence to disprove the active volcano theory.
(B) There wasn't enough evidence to write about the fault line theory.
(C) Simply that the idea of an active volcano was much more interesting to the public.
(D) Joseph Schwartzberg was the only geologist saying otherwise.
| {
"answer_start": [
274
],
"text": [
"Simply that the idea of an active volcano was much more interesting to the public."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_3 | 50893_71BYF8M1_3_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | What happens that completely confirms Schwartzberg's theory?
(A) An earthquake begins, and the fault starts to settle on either side, putting everything into motion.
(B) A landslip began to form along the fault, and the land continued to sink.
(C) The tremors begin to increase in size.
(D) A new lake was beginning to settle around the Arkansas River.
| {
"answer_start": [
67
],
"text": [
"An earthquake begins, and the fault starts to settle on either side, putting everything into motion."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_4 | 50893_71BYF8M1_4_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | What is most significant about the earthquake that happens?
(A) It proved that the dust volcano was alive.
(B) It proved Schwartzberg's theory?
(C) It became a national tragedy, affecting most of the country.
(D) It happened quickly and suddenly.
| {
"answer_start": [
153
],
"text": [
"It became a national tragedy, affecting most of the country."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_5 | 50893_71BYF8M1_5_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | About how long does the tragedy take place?
(A) About three months total.
(B) Over the course of a month.
(C) It all took place between September and October.
(D) It's all over in a matter of hours.
| {
"answer_start": [
50
],
"text": [
"About three months total."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_6 | 50893_71BYF8M1_6_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | What major change happened to the country's landscape as the tragedy continued?
(A) State lines were made to be different after the upsets by the earthquakes.
(B) Much of the landscape is upset by the earthquakes, throwing dirt and dust everywhere.
(C) Several states totally sink, and water takes its place.
(D) New cliffs and fault lines continued to form.
| {
"answer_start": [
259
],
"text": [
"Several states totally sink, and water takes its place."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_7 | 50893_71BYF8M1_7_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | How has the new Nebraska Sea changed the climate in America?
(A) Because everything is now along a coastline, it's much cooler.
(B) For most of the states, it's about the same.
(C) It's much muggier in many places now, and unlivable in others.
(D) It's brought on much warmer, more tolerable weather.
| {
"answer_start": [
257
],
"text": [
"It's brought on much warmer, more tolerable weather."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_8 | 50893_71BYF8M1_8_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | What's the most unexpected result of the disaster?
(A) Because of the new sea, there are no more rivers to trade by.
(B) Even though millions of lives were lost, the economy is now booming due to the sea.
(C) Coast-to-coast travel via buses and trucks is now a thing of the past.
(D) Many of the previous states have dissolved.
| {
"answer_start": [
126
],
"text": [
"Even though millions of lives were lost, the economy is now booming due to the sea."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_9 | 50893_71BYF8M1_9_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | How has America transformed as a country after the events?
(A) With millions of their people gone, America is still finding a foothold in this new world.
(B) It's now a booming maritime location, with high population and economic growth.
(C) Most of the states have separated and began to live independently again.
(D) The political climate has been completely upended.
| {
"answer_start": [
162
],
"text": [
"It's now a booming maritime location, with high population and economic growth."
]
} |
|
50893_71BYF8M1_10 | 50893_71BYF8M1_10_0 | THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
By ALLAN DANZIG
Illustrated by WOOD
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
Times
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
scenes
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
south
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
Salt spray.
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west! | How is this article written?
(A) Like a factual retelling of events that have happened in America's history.
(B) As a scientific paper going over a tragedy that happened once in America.
(C) As a theory as to what could end up happening to America one day.
(D) As an obviously fictional scenario.
| {
"answer_start": [
35
],
"text": [
"Like a factual retelling of events that have happened in America's history."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_1 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_1_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | Why did the bank robbers end up crashing?
(A) The cops used incendiary bullets to melt the tires.
(B) The Scorpion somehow melted their tires.
(C) They didn't realize the car they stole was damaged.
(D) It was so hot outside that their tires melted and blew out.
| {
"answer_start": [
107
],
"text": [
"The Scorpion somehow melted their tires."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_2 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_2_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | Why does The Scorpion go mostly unnoticed, despite reaching out to the newspaper?
(A) The police don't want to bring attention to them, because they don't believe there is a connection between the crimes.
(B) Their first letter was disregarded, and their second was read by a different person.
(C) The Scorpion hasn't made an appearance in person yet.
(D) They wrote a crank letter, and so it was completely disregarded.
| {
"answer_start": [
214
],
"text": [
"Their first letter was disregarded, and their second was read by a different person."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_3 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_3_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | Why does Stevenson begin to suspect a connection between the crimes?
(A) Stevenson has an overactive imagination, similar to how a previous police officer had been.
(B) The nature of how the crimes ended didn't add up on their own. That, as well as the signatures, make him believe there is more.
(C) Two back-to-back crimes is too suspicious.
(D) The alibi of Higgins doesn't add up. He admits to leaving the signature, but Stevenson doesn't trust him.
| {
"answer_start": [
173
],
"text": [
"The nature of how the crimes ended didn't add up on their own. That, as well as the signatures, make him believe there is more."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_4 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_4_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | Why do the gangs pick Halloween night to fight?
(A) The schoolyard would be empty as kids would be out.
(B) They could be out past curfew without suspicion. No one would question why kids were going out on Halloween night.
(C) The cops would be preoccupied with other matters, and it was easy to explain why you had a weapon on you.
(D) The cops wouldn't be on lookout on a night like Halloween, so they can get away with doing what they want.
| {
"answer_start": [
234
],
"text": [
"The cops would be preoccupied with other matters, and it was easy to explain why you had a weapon on you."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_5 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_5_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | Why does the Scorpion leave their signature at each crime?
(A) To show that they "took care" of each criminal.
(B) To scare off other potential criminals.
(C) To show that they were present at the crime.
(D) To help lead the police in connecting the crimes.
| {
"answer_start": [
65
],
"text": [
"To show that they \"took care\" of each criminal."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_6 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_6_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | What do all 3 crimes have in common?
(A) They were ended by unexplained phenomena and marked by the Scorpion.
(B) They were carried out by The Scorpions, a new gang.
(C) They were ended by the criminals being apprehended by the police.
(D) In all 3 cases, something either melted or got too hot to handle.
| {
"answer_start": [
43
],
"text": [
"They were ended by unexplained phenomena and marked by the Scorpion."
]
} |
|
61090_FGU9ZSOF_7 | 61090_FGU9ZSOF_7_0 | CALL HIM NEMESIS
By DONALD E. WESTLAKE
Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on
your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,
for that matter, so do the cops!
The man with the handkerchief mask said, "All right, everybody, keep
tight. This is a holdup."
There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at
his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.
There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named
Rodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English and
Miss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was Mister
Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their
joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward
(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars
dimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his father
in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,
withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three
bank robbers.
The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they
all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,
brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs
over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled
low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.
The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-two
calibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One of
the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and
said to him in a low voice, "Think about retirement, my friend." The
third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked
quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with
money.
It was just like the movies.
The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and
the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man
stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money
into the black satchel.
The man by the door said, "Hurry up."
The man with the satchel said, "One more drawer."
The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, "Keep your
shirt on."
That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ran
pelting in her stocking feet for the door.
The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, "Hey!" The man
with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd
been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the
brass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.
The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly did
her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting
out the front door and running down the street toward the police
station in the next block, shouting, "Help! Help! Robbery!"
The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came
running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried
to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with
the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the
floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,
in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.
Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.
Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came
driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,
and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and
drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police
cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting
like the ships in pirate movies.
There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers
were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong
way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear
path behind them.
Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly
started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And
all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers
when they crawled dazedly out of their car.
"Hey," said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. "Hey, that was something,
huh, Mom?"
"Come along home," said his mother, grabbing his hand. "We don't want
to be involved."
"It was the nuttiest thing," said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. "An
operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their
getaway car, you know what I mean?"
Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. "They always slip up," he said.
"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up."
"Yes, but their
tires
."
"Well," said Pauling, "it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed
whatever was handiest."
"What I can't figure out," said Stevenson, "is exactly what made those
tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't
that
hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast
enough to melt your tires down."
Pauling shrugged again. "We got them. That's the important thing."
"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out
Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes
blow out and there they are." Stevenson shook his head. "I can't figure
it."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," suggested Pauling. "They picked
the wrong car to steal."
"And
that
doesn't make sense, either," said Stevenson. "Why steal a
car that could be identified as easily as that one?"
"Why? What was it, a foreign make?"
"No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like half
the cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner had
burned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half a
block away."
"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car," said Pauling.
"For a well-planned operation like this one," said Stevenson, "they
made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense."
"What do they have to say about it?" Pauling demanded.
"Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all."
The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his head
in. "The owner of that Chevvy's here," he said.
"Right," said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to the
front desk.
The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall
and paunchy. "John Hastings," he said. "They say you have my car here."
"I believe so, yes," said Stevenson. "I'm afraid it's in pretty bad
shape."
"So I was told over the phone," said Hastings grimly. "I've contacted
my insurance company."
"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come
with me?"
On the way around, Stevenson said, "I believe you reported the car
stolen almost immediately after it happened."
"That's right," said Hastings. "I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm
a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car
was gone."
"You left the keys in it?"
"Well, why not?" demanded Hastings belligerently. "If I'm making just
a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one
customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?"
"The car was stolen," Stevenson reminded him.
Hastings grumbled and glared. "It's always been perfectly safe up till
now."
"Yes, sir. In here."
Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. "It's ruined!"
he cried. "What did you do to the tires?"
"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup."
Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. "Look at that!
There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What
did you use, incendiary bullets?"
Stevenson shook his head. "No, sir. When that happened they were two
blocks away from the nearest policeman."
"Hmph." Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,
"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of
kids
had stolen the car."
"It wasn't a bunch of kids," Stevenson told him. "It was four
professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in
a bank holdup."
"Then why did they do
that
?"
Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the
crudely-lettered words, "The Scorpion" burned black into the paint of
the trunk lid. "I really don't know," he said. "It wasn't there before
the car was stolen?"
"Of course not!"
Stevenson frowned. "Now, why in the world did they do that?"
"I suggest," said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, "you ask them that."
Stevenson shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking
about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us." He looked at the
trunk lid again. "It's the nuttiest thing," he said thoughtfully....
That was on Wednesday.
The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the
Daily News
brought a crank
letter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,
the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from a
newspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.
The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Editor:
The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion
fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging
Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. It
didn't rate a line in the paper.
II
The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man
went berserk.
It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica
Bay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,
composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was a
Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.
Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the
third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,
brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.
As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to
awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he
really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then
allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.
Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma
Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the
house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked
bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and
"stop acting like a child." Neighbors reported to the police that they
heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, "Go away! Can't you let a
man sleep?"
At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,
a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of
similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted
from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being
annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells
at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the
hand and shoulder.
Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming
out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,
"Murder! Murder!" At this point, neighbors called the police. One
neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television
stations, thereby earning forty dollars in "news-tips" rewards.
By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the Belt
Parkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at Idlewild
Airport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up a
position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work
with a Zoomar lens.
In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,
firing at anything that moved.
The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One
concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors
and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to
search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home
audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and
undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the
house.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,
and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the
corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.
Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The
police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they
had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.
Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge
anyone present to hand-to-hand combat.
The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day
and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.
Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.
The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and
dramatically.
Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of
shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and
threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered
down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell
barrel first onto the lawn.
Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a
wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall
into the arms of the waiting police.
They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually
trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was
shouting: "My hands! My hands!"
They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingers
were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was
another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.
Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn
ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The
neighbors went home and telephoned their friends.
On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the
precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William
Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy
individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.
He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.
He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of the
stock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, "The
Scorpion."
You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but political
connections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. As
Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both
more imaginative than most—"You gotta be able to second-guess the
smart boys"—and to be a complete realist—"You gotta have both feet
on the ground." If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it was
best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.
The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.
"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," admitted Stevenson. "But we've got these two things.
First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for
no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.
Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifle
all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to
prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'."
"He says he put that on there himself," said the captain.
Stevenson shook his head. "His
lawyer
says he put it on there.
Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's
case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense."
"He put it on there himself, Stevenson," said the captain with weary
patience. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And
what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?"
"They were defective," said Hanks promptly.
"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the
trunk?"
"How do I know?" demanded the captain. "Kids put it on before the car
was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?
What do
they
say?"
"They say they didn't do it," said Stevenson. "And they say they never
saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been
there."
The captain shook his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What are
you trying to prove?"
"I guess," said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, "I
guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made
that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind."
"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are
you trying to hand me?"
"All I know," insisted Stevenson, "is what I see."
"And all
I
know," the captain told him, "is Higgins put that name on
his rifle himself. He says so."
"And what made it so hot?"
"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do
you
think
made it hot?"
"All of a sudden?"
"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him."
"How come the same name showed up each time, then?" Stevenson asked
desperately.
"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these
things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they
write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens
all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?"
"But there's no explanation—" started Stevenson.
"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just
gave
you the
explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty
idea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea there
was a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandoned
refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting
all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.
Remember?"
"I remember," said Stevenson.
"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson," the captain advised him.
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson....
The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a
crank letter to the
Daily News
:
Dear Mr. Editor,
You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could
not escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal is
safe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.
Sincerely yours,
THE SCORPION
Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who had
seen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in the
same place, and forgotten.
III
Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around
for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up
carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on
your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a
JD.
The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entrances
on two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, and
the street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sides
claimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guys
from both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but that
had been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, and
determined that the matter could only be settled in a war.
The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.
The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no
pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner
would have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, both
entrances.
The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate
clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play
chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of
the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might
come wandering through.
Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteen
years old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,
gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of the
Scarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned to
her. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.
Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets were
dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,
particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone
pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet
Raider jacket and waited.
At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. The
rumble had started.
At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down the
street. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of them
carried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en masks
on.
They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, "Hey,
you kids. Take off."
One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. "Who, us?"
"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way."
"The subway's this way," objected the kid in the red mask.
"Who cares? You go around the other way."
"Listen, lady," said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, "we got a long
way to go to get home."
"Yeah," said another kid, in a black mask, "and we're late as it is."
"I couldn't care less," Judy told them callously. "You can't go down
that street."
"Why not?" demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most complete
and elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirt
and a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had a
black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. "Why can't we go down
there?" this apparition demanded.
"Because I said so," Judy told him. "Now, you kids get away from here.
Take off."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. "Hey, they're
fighting down there!"
"It's a rumble," said Judy proudly. "You twerps don't want to be
involved."
"Hey!" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he went
running around Judy and dashing off down the street.
"Hey, Eddie!" shouted one of the other kids. "Eddie, come back!"
Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase
the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would
come running along after her. She didn't know what to do.
A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.
"Cheez," said one of the kids. "The cops!"
"Fuzz!" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the
schoolyard, shouting, "Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!"
But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in the
schoolyard.
The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving
their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling
off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.
They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's
warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both
schoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judy
and the rumble was over.
Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one great
big blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid in
the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.
And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.
Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he was
impatient as well. "All right, Stevenson," he said. "Make it fast, I've
got a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thing
of yours again."
"I'm afraid it is, Captain," said Stevenson. "Did you see the morning
paper?"
"So what?"
"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?"
Captain Hanks sighed. "Stevenson," he said wearily, "are you going to
try to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What's
the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?"
"Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,'" Stevenson told
him. "One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the
Challengers."
"So they changed their name," said Hanks.
"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?"
"Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over."
"It was a territorial war," Stevenson reminded him. "They've admitted
that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever
seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight."
"A bunch of juvenile delinquents," said Hanks in disgust. "You take
their word?"
"Captain, did you read the article in the paper?"
"I glanced through it."
"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started
fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once
all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and
belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.
And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to
pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later
collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been
branded 'The Scorpion.'"
"Now, let
me
tell
you
something," said Hanks severely. "They heard
the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they
threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been
part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before
they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed
up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it
but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the
neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not
bothering anybody.
That's
what happened. And all this talk about
freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec
punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to
worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid
gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or
you're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.
Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson."
"Yes, sir," said Stevenson. | What seems to be the Scorpion's motivation?
(A) They want people to know their name and fear them, hence leaving their mark at every crime.
(B) They are indiscriminately attacking people in various situations.
(C) They hate criminals and work as a vigilante, punishing people as they see fit.
(D) They want to cause trouble because they are actually The Scorpions, a group of juvenile delinquents.
| {
"answer_start": [
220
],
"text": [
"They hate criminals and work as a vigilante, punishing people as they see fit."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_1 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_1_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | Why are Quezy and Bob investigating the asteroid?
(A) To see if it matches the specifications of the person who ordered it.
(B) To investigate the ship that's been parked on it.
(C) To check what minerals and ores are present in it.
(D) To check its overall dimensions.
| {
"answer_start": [
56
],
"text": [
"To see if it matches the specifications of the person who ordered it."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_2 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_2_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | Why are Quezy and Bob pressed for time?
(A) They don't want their competitors getting to the asteroid before them and missing out on the profit.
(B) The Saylor Brothers have been chasing them, and they know they're on their way to the same asteroid.
(C) They need to fulfill Burnside's requests quickly in order to make a profit.
(D) Hauling asteroids is dangerous work, and the quicker they get it done the better.
| {
"answer_start": [
261
],
"text": [
"They need to fulfill Burnside's requests quickly in order to make a profit."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_3 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_3_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | Why does Starre lay claim to the asteroid?
(A) She's trying to get away from her life. She can't stand how stubborn her Grandfather is.
(B) She's trying to delay her arranged marriage, by preventing the asteroid from ever being delivered.
(C) She told her Grandfather about the asteroid and told him she would marry Mac on top of it.
(D) She's Burnside's granddaughter and is protecting it for him.
| {
"answer_start": [
144
],
"text": [
"She's trying to delay her arranged marriage, by preventing the asteroid from ever being delivered."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_4 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_4_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | Why is Starre hesitant to accept Bob's feelings?
(A) She knows that the wedding has to happen, one way or another.
(B) She doesn't feel the same way about Bob.
(C) She feels trapped by her Grandfather's bargain.
(D) She still cares about Mac, despite all that's happening.
| {
"answer_start": [
170
],
"text": [
"She feels trapped by her Grandfather's bargain."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_5 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_5_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | How does the shape of Starre's ship benefit them?
(A) It made it easy to spot and to re-locate it.
(B) It's small, making it easy for them to transport it with them.
(C) Being a "yo-yo" shape, it was easy to attach cables to it and maneuver it back and forth.
(D) Being a "yo-yo" shape, they can use it like one to fight against the Saylor brothers.
| {
"answer_start": [
272
],
"text": [
"Being a \"yo-yo\" shape, they can use it like one to fight against the Saylor brothers."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_6 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_6_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | What happens at the second confrontation with the Saylor brothers?
(A) The yo-yo fails to hit the other ship, as it can't quite reach it.
(B) The Saylor brothers call on the Interplanetary Commission for help.
(C) The yo-yo worked as intended, hitting their ship with the first hit.
(D) The yo-yo worked as intended after some maneuvering, damaging their ship.
| {
"answer_start": [
295
],
"text": [
"The yo-yo worked as intended after some maneuvering, damaging their ship."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_7 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_7_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | Why do Starre, Bob, and Quezy work together, despite having goals that are at odds with one another?
(A) Starre is hopeful that they can eventually help her out of her own predicament.
(B) The Saylor brothers are in the way for both parties, and it makes more sense to work together to take them down.
(C) Bob and Quezy don't care what happens to her after. They just want to get through the situation.
(D) They simply don't have any other choice.
| {
"answer_start": [
193
],
"text": [
"The Saylor brothers are in the way for both parties, and it makes more sense to work together to take them down."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_8 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_8_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | Why do Bob and Quezy haul asteroids in the first place?
(A) They are hoping to start a new business selling them.
(B) Other companies have been making a profit with them, and they want in on it.
(C) The asteroids of deposits of rich minerals, making them valuable. Hence why they check the composition of each one.
(D) It's a new fad that Bob hard started, where rich people enjoy having them on display.
| {
"answer_start": [
327
],
"text": [
"It's a new fad that Bob hard started, where rich people enjoy having them on display."
]
} |
|
63527_XKZ0ITIT_9 | 63527_XKZ0ITIT_9_0 | COSMIC YO-YO
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
"Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply
cheap. Trouble also handled without charge."
Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)
Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shaped
asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had
he thought they would actually find what they were looking for.
"Cut the drive!" he yelled at Queazy. "I've got it, right on the nose.
Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,
we're rich! Come here!"
Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in
such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate
as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back
excitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big body
shook with joyful ejaculations.
"She checks down to the last dimension," Bob chortled, working with
slide-rule and logarithm tables. "Now all we have to do is find out if
she's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But there
couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so
this has to be it!"
He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and thumbed his nose at the signature.
"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty
thousand dollars!"
Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.
"Better take it easy," he advised, "until I land the ship and we use
the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the
asteroid."
"Have it your way," Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram
to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so
called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship
straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it
tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought
out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with
star-powdered infinity spread to all sides.
In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,
one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It
was addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &
Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. The
ethergram read:
Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to state
that yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet following
specifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;
98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topside
smooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,
quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30
A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Will
pay $5.00 per ton.
Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if The
Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on the
rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)
neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering
ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It
was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance
there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries
would be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, using
their mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed like
an incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions of
asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only
three weeks.
The "asteroid in your back yard" idea had been Bob Parker's originally.
Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first
rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.
Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on
that brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which persons
Bob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would have
before this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.
Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to
get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get
wind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.
Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor made
no pretense of being scrupulous.
Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the
magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They
came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and
"down" the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parker
happily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.
By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,
but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn't
use it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, and
then sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, tore
atoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. The
radiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams to
the atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowly
up and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—
Bob Parker said, in astonishment, "Hell! There's something screwy about
this business. Look at that point—"
Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any
further. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,
"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?"
Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred and
the lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far as
he could inside the "aquarium"—the glass helmet, and found himself
looking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of the
asteroid "below."
"Ma'am," said Bob, blinking, "did you say something?"
Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automatically
reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.
"I said," remarked the girl, "that you should scram off of my asteroid.
And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already taken
a reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye."
Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore even
inside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. He
knew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, the
girl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face was
visible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brown
hair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her compared
nicely.
Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way he
was looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, "Now you two boys
go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission
know you've infringed the law. G'bye!"
She turned and disappeared.
Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, "Hey! Wait!
You!
"
He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they
hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid
qualifications Burnside had set down.
"Wait a minute," Bob Parker begged nervously. "I want to make some
conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—"
The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,
and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.
"I understand conditions better than you do," she said. "You want
to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.
Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I
don't expect to be here then."
"A month!" Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then his
face became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinked
and lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. About
twenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny and
unscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curved
surface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month would
be too late!
He said grimly, "Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.
I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay on
an asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. But
to us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an order
for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard
wedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!
If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to
Satterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.
Don't we, Queazy?"
Queazy said simply, "That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you
we didn't expect to find someone living here."
The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitable
expression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of her
space-suit. "Okay," she said. "Now I understand the conditions. Now we
both understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and—" she
smiled sweetly "—it may interest you to know that if I let you have
the asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse than
death! So that's that."
Bob recognized finality when he saw it. "Come on, Queazy," he said
fuming. "Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her
without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,
right where it'll do the most good!"
He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.
He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"What's wha—
Oh!
"
Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating
gently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle bigger
than their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In another
second, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to his
headset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.
"Listen to me, miss," he snapped earnestly, when she tried to draw
away. "Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!
Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've been
double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't
hesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?
We got to back each other up."
The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.
"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it
is," she said huskily. "What—what will they do?"
Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue
sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic
clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and
five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood
surveying the three who faced them.
The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; their
darkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.
"A pleasure," drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. "What do you
think of this situation Billy?"
"It's obvious," drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on his
heels, "that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll have
to take steps."
The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling
laughter.
Bob Parker's gorge rose. "Scram," he said coldly. "We've got an
ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid."
"So have we," Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,
dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back came
abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave
back a step, as he saw their intentions.
"We got here first," he snapped harshly. "Try any funny stuff and we'll
report you to the Interplanetary Commission!"
It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of
these men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking of
the girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brained
chance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled at
Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He
hurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroid
and threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.
At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of his
hand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knocked
the smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then something
crushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solar
plexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,
and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,
before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to complete
darkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.
What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,
he didn't care. Then—lights out.
Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. He
opened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sun
swept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base of
his skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There was
no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.
Alone in a space-suit.
"Queazy!" he whispered. "Queazy! I'm running out of air!"
There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the
oxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!
That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days at
least—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a dose
of spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to the
snapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animation
that his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fight
against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was
probably scrawny. And he was hungry!
"I'll starve," he thought. "Or suffocate to death first!"
He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,
then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enough
air in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hoping
that somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the same
condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.
Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought of
them as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—
He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he was
gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's
name once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strength
to call it.
And this time the headset spoke back!
Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed with
static, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound in
his throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he saw
a ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size against
the backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in his
ears.
He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and the
girl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. His
"aquarium" was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.
The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lying
on a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in his
clearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, for
awhile anyway.
"Thanks, Queazy," he said huskily.
Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his
suddenly brightening face.
"Don't thank me," he whispered. "We'd have both been goners if it
hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like
us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.
She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave
her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the
direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors
scattered us far and wide." Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face
twisted blackly. "The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died."
Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down at
him curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearing
lightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paper
flower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyes
widened on her.
The girl said glumly, "I guess you men won't much care for me when you
find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.
Burnside's granddaughter!"
Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.
"Say that again?" he snapped. "This is some kind of dirty trick you and
your grandfather cooked up?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "No. My grandfather didn't even know there was an
asteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—or
from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the
stubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, and
when people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's been
badgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—"
"Who's Mac?" Queazy demanded.
"My fiancé, I guess," she said helplessly. "He's one of my granddad's
protégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and giving
him a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurian
water-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.
If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely
impossible
it
is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of
nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt
and picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could take
place on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I told
my grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on top
of an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,
and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make sure
that if somebody
did
find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able
to get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.
Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,
by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except," she added
bitterly, "the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure
the asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies."
Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and was
gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating
only a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.
"How long were we floating around out there?"
"Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us a
stiff shot."
"
Ouch!
" Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal with
determination. "Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and your
granddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'm
going to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylor
brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and
ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has
plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a
long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them
a few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have a
fling at getting the asteroid back!"
Her eyes sparkled. "You mean—" she cried. Then her attractive face
fell. "Oh," she said. "
Oh!
And when you get it back, you'll land it."
"That's right," Bob said grimly. "We're in business. For us, it's a
matter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid is
your marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we three
can work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem out
later. Okay?"
She smiled tremulously. "Okay, I guess."
Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully
at Bob. "You're plain nuts," he complained. "How do you propose to go
about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the
asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry
long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not
without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that."
Bob looked at Queazy dismally. "The old balance-wheel," he groaned at
Starre. "He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All
I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the
meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?"
Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward the
galley.
Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after five
days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;
probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn't
attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed
astern, attached by a long cable.
Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifth
day Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and she
gently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.
"Even
I
know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,
Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?"
"Right," he said unsteadily. "Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, this
ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.
All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway
and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the
contraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affects
every atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We could
go from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second just
like that!"
He snapped his fingers. "No acceleration effects. This type of ship,
necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in
any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion
at—Oh, hell!" Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making him
shake. He took her hand. "Starre," he said desperately, "I've got to
tell you something—"
She jerked her hand away. "No," she exclaimed in an almost frightened
voice. "You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac," she finished,
faltering. "The asteroid—"
"You
have
to marry him?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I have to live up to the bargain."
"And ruin your whole life," he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to
the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to
the lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell ship
trailing astern.
"There's your ship, Starre." He jabbed his finger at it. "I've got a
feeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehow
the whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back lies
there. But how?
How?
"
Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was
attached around her ship's narrow midsection.
She shook her head helplessly. "It just looks like a big yo-yo to me."
"A yo-yo?"
"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all." She was belligerent.
"A
yo-yo
!" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he
got out of the chair so fast. "Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!"
He disappeared from the room. "Queazy!" he shouted. "
Queazy, I've got
it!
"
It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,
fastening two huge supra-steel "eyes" onto the dumbbell-shaped ship's
narrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back to
two winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, and
reinforced.
The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob
Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of
cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into
strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the
end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy
snapped his fingers.
"It'll work!" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. "Now, if only the
Saylor brothers are where we calculated!"
They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had
discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid
on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the
Moon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech to
the still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundred
thousand miles from Earth!
"We have to work fast," Bob stammered, sweating. He got within
naked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth was
spread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemisphere
vaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy ship
was two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliant
sky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.
Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. "Go to it, Bob!"
Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, then
sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten
miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the
"yo-yo."
There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,
scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm
the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,
for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's
little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!
It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid
lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a
fantastic spinning cannon ball.
"It's going to hit!"
The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell ship
reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of
completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back
up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.
Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver
for the "yo-yo" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was
ticklish work completely to nullify the "yo-yo's" speed. Bob used
exactly the same method of catching the "yo-yo" on the blunt nose of
the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in
his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost
exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid
dividends, for the "yo-yo" came to rest snugly, ready to be released
again.
All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor
brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.
But by the time the "yo-yo" was flung at them again, this time with
better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid
between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for
the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing
it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came
spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and
again the "yo-yo" snapped out.
And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the
Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the
hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to
the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had
received a mere dent in its starboard half.
Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, "Attaboy, Bob! This
time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!"
The "yo-yo" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.
Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish
communication.
Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in the
telaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up in
the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.
"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?" he roared.
"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our
stern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!"
"Now," Bob drawled, "you're getting the idea."
"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!" screamed Saylor.
"
If
you're alive," Bob snarled wrathfully. "And you won't be unless
you release the asteroid."
"I'll see you in Hades first!"
"Hades," remarked Bob coldly, "here you come!"
He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at
zero. And the "yo-yo" went on its lone, destructive sortie.
For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a
doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size
with a strangled yell.
The "yo-yo" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in
such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as
heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling
precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was
apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,
their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for
a second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from
its still-intact jets.
The battle was won! | What is likely the next step in the story?
(A) Starre takes the asteroid back, and she goes back to living on it alone.
(B) The Saylor brothers return and retrieve the asteroid again.
(C) Bob and Quezy work with Starre to come up with a solution to both their problems,
(D) Bob and Quezy deliver the asteroid, and Starre marries Mac.
| {
"answer_start": [
194
],
"text": [
"Bob and Quezy work with Starre to come up with a solution to both their problems,"
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_1 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_1_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | Why was Peter Karson initially relieved when he first heard the news of the invasion?
(A) He was glad to know he wasn't the only person who had seen something.
(B) He was glad to hear it reported, rather than ignored.
(C) It confirmed that what he saw was real, and he wasn't losing his mind.
(D) He feared he was going mad and was relieved to hear something from the real world.
| {
"answer_start": [
227
],
"text": [
"It confirmed that what he saw was real, and he wasn't losing his mind."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_2 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_2_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | What seems to be the invader's reason for visiting Earth?
(A) They recognize humans as intelligent beings and wanted to see what they have made.
(B) They want to wage war with Earth and take it for themselves.
(C) They are investigating humans in a scientific, albeit fatal, way.
(D) They are investigating humans, making notes to not destroy their world indiscriminately.
| {
"answer_start": [
220
],
"text": [
"They are investigating humans in a scientific, albeit fatal, way."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_3 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_3_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | What is significant about the events being broadcasted?
(A) Without the broadcast, there is no proof of what is happening. As Peter says, it's unbelievable otherwse.
(B) Even though the imagery is horrific, it's important that the whole world is made aware. It's their only warning.
(C) The images are horrific. It shows the brutality of the aliens.
(D) The broadcasts will likely lead to mass panic and suicide, because of how grim the circumstances are.
| {
"answer_start": [
174
],
"text": [
"Even though the imagery is horrific, it's important that the whole world is made aware. It's their only warning."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_4 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_4_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | How does it seem that the aliens communicate?
(A) They make mental contact with human victims, often leading them to madness.
(B) They speak through people, making them scream.
(C) Their lips are sealed together. They are unable to speak.
(D) They speak telepathically, in a language people can't understand.
| {
"answer_start": [
251
],
"text": [
"They speak telepathically, in a language people can't understand."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_5 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_5_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | Why is Peter's status so important when he wakes up?
(A) He's one of the few people to have survived an encounter with the aliens.
(B) He's a scientist. Scientists are part of the last hope as people who could potentially piece together how to fight the aliens.
(C) He's a scientist. Scientists are part of the last hope as people who could lead a new life in the underground.
(D) He's one of the few survivors of the new world. They need every healthy person they can get.
| {
"answer_start": [
138
],
"text": [
"He's a scientist. Scientists are part of the last hope as people who could potentially piece together how to fight the aliens."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_6 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_6_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | What is Peter's mission aboard The Avenger?
(A) To seek a solution to the aliens out in space.
(B) To take the embryos with him and start a new life for humans.
(C) To mutate embryos until they come across someone who can fight the aliens.
(D) To seek out a "superman." Someone who can face the aliens for them.
| {
"answer_start": [
171
],
"text": [
"To mutate embryos until they come across someone who can fight the aliens."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_7 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_7_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | Why does Peter insist that Lorelei not come along for the mission?
(A) He knows he will mutate when he leaves, and he can't stand the thought of her seeing him like that.
(B) It's too dangerous for her to go as a woman. She doesn't have the same odds of survival.
(C) He knows she would mutate as well, and he wouldn't be able to handle that and put the mission at risk.
(D) He knows that they'll be reunited, and promises to come back.
| {
"answer_start": [
273
],
"text": [
"He knows she would mutate as well, and he wouldn't be able to handle that and put the mission at risk."
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_8 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_8_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | Before his departure, Peter recalls a line from a film. Why does it come to mind for him?
(A) He recognizes that he will be a changed, mutated man when he returns. He literally will come back "not as a boy."
(B) He's trying to convince himself that he and humanity will be able to come back, with the emphasis on "We'll come back."
(C) The situation is grave. Like men who go off to war, the journey will change them. He won't be coming home as the same "boy."
(D) He's not sure he'll be coming back, and the song is bittersweet for him.
| {
"answer_start": [
96
],
"text": [
"He recognizes that he will be a changed, mutated man when he returns. He literally will come back \"not as a boy.\""
]
} |
|
62619_Q3L6B2WU_9 | 62619_Q3L6B2WU_9_0 | THE AVENGER
By STUART FLEMING
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
Citadel
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
"Lord!" he said.
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
There were flaring red headlines.
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
200 DEAD
Then lines of type, and farther down:
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said:
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
superior to ourselves in every way
.
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
"
Will
we?" he asked himself softly.
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
Lorelei caught her breath.
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
"Yes."
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
"Wait here," he mouthed.
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
Peter!
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
"
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
"
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
"
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
"
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
"
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
"
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
"
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
"
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
He tried again. "Doctor."
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
more
—than three—months."
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
"But why?" Peter whispered.
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
"Our last hope?"
"Yes. You're a scientist."
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
Citadel
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
maybe
, he
thought,
there's a chance
....
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
Citadel
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
The Avenger
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
"Darling," he began wearily.
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
They
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
them
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
They'll
come
back—but not as
boys
!"
We'll come back, but not as men.
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
We'll come back....
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
The
Avenger
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
they
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
I repeated it patiently.
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
"To do so would be illogical."
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
"No, you don't understand that, either."
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable. | By the end of the passage. what can we understand about the opening scene?
(A) Without Peter, the ship won't be functional anymore.
(B) Despite being logical, Robert feels emotional about killing Peter. He is at odds with himself.
(C) Robert kills Peter without any thought behind it.
(D) Robert's cold logic has won him over completely.
| {
"answer_start": [
140
],
"text": [
"Despite being logical, Robert feels emotional about killing Peter. He is at odds with himself."
]
} |
|
61228_GH2KIWTI_1 | 61228_GH2KIWTI_1_0 | THE BIG HEADACHE
BY JIM HARMON
What's the principal cause of headaches?
Why, having a head, of course!
I
"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to
cooperate in the experiment?" Ferris asked eagerly.
"How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?" Mitchell inquired.
"He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to
me
for help
against that repatriated fullback."
Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. "Guess I got
carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a
quick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down."
"I know," Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. "Somehow the men with the
money just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would have
financed a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the information
gained from that study is vital in cancer research."
"When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value for
anyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for a
field test." Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his
forehead. "I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestor
of all headaches."
Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression
of demonic intensity. "Ferris, would you consider—?"
"No!" the smaller man yelled. "You can't expect me to violate
professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself."
"
Our
discovery," Mitchell said politely.
"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely
ethical with even a discovery partly mine."
"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?
Our reputations don't go outside our own fields," Mitchell said. "But
now Macklin—"
Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einstein
in the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the word
"mathematician" or even "scientist" was mentioned. No one knew whether
his Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet been
able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but
looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The
government took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the
Ideal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.
For the past seven years Macklin—who
was
the Advanced Studies
Department of Firestone University—had been involved in devising a
faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the
nearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knew
that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of
Ad
astra per aspirin
.
The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.
Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild
stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was
known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of
the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several
weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen
around the campus.
Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the
laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair
behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.
"Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?" Ferris demanded,
pausing in mid-stride.
"I imagine he will," Mitchell said. "Macklin's always seemed a decent
enough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees
meetings."
"He's always treated me like dirt," Ferris said heatedly. "Everyone on
this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in
their smug faces."
Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of
scientific detachment.
There came a discreet knock on the door.
"Please come in," Mitchell said.
Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He
looked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchell
suspected that that was his intention.
He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. "Good of you to ask me over,
Steven."
Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. "How have you been,
Harold?"
Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. "Fine, thank you,
doctor."
Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. "Now
what's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the
explanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know."
Mitchell moved around the desk casually. "Actually, Doctor, we haven't
the right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be an
element of risk."
The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. "Now you
have me intrigued. What is it all about?"
"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "That's right, Steven. Migraine."
"That must be terrible," Ferris said. "All your fine reputation and
lavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearing
agony begins, can it?"
"No, Harold, it isn't," Macklin admitted. "What does your project have
to do with my headaches?"
"Doctor," Mitchell said, "what would you say the most common complaint
of man is?"
"I would have said the common cold," Macklin replied, "but I suppose
from what you have said you mean headaches."
"Headaches," Mitchell agreed. "Everybody has them at some time in his
life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide by
their headaches."
"Yes," Macklin said.
"But think," Ferris interjected, "what a boon it would be if everyone
could be cured of headaches
forever
by one simple injection."
"I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But it
would please about everybody else."
"Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscular
pains," Mitchell said.
"I see. Are you two saying you
have
such a shot? Can you cure
headaches?"
"We think we can," Ferris said.
"How can you have a specific for a number of different causes?" Macklin
asked. "I know that much about the subject."
"There
are
a number of different causes for headaches—nervous
strain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,
over-indulgence—but there is one
effect
of all of this, the one real
cause of headaches," Mitchell announced.
"We have definitely established this for this first time," Ferris added.
"That's fine," Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. "And this effect that
produces headaches is?"
"The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain," Mitchell
said eagerly. "That is, the constriction of blood vessels in the
telencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by an
over-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a
virus that feeds on pituitrin."
"That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean
the end of the race as well," Macklin said. "In certain areas it is
valuable to have a constriction of blood vessels."
"The virus," Ferris explained, "can easily be localized and stabilized.
A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebral
vessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluid
doesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain."
The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. "If this really
works, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuff
makes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than the
migraine. How should I go about removing my curse?" He reinserted the
pipe.
"I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate," Ferris said. "Our
discovery will work."
"Will work," Macklin said thoughtfully. "The operative word. It
hasn't
worked then?"
"Certainly it has," Ferris said. "On rats, on chimps...."
"But not on humans?" Macklin asked.
"Not yet," Mitchell admitted.
"Well," Macklin said. "Well." He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.
"Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectors
from the Army."
"We want you," Ferris told him.
Macklin coughed. "I don't want to overestimate my value but the
government wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of this
project. My wife would like it even less."
Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see him
mouthing the word
yellow
.
"Doctor," Mitchell said quickly, "I know it's a tremendous favor to
ask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.
Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of our
studies we can get no more financial backing. We
should
run a
large-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.
We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of our
resources."
"I'm tempted," Macklin said hesitantly, "but the answer is go. I mean
'
no
'. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much to
others to take the rest—the risk, I mean."
Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. "I really
would like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that it
means another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain through
my temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the rioting
pools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh."
Ferris smiled. "Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Produces
nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn't
it? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I've
heard some say they preferred the migraine."
Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to
tend it in a worn leather case. "Tell me," he said, "what is the worst
that could happen to me?"
"Low blood pressure," Ferris said.
"That's not so bad," Macklin said. "How low can it get?"
"When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,"
Mitchell said.
A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. "Is there much
risk of that?"
"Practically none," Mitchell said. "We have to give you the worst
possibilities.
All
our test animals survived and seem perfectly happy
and contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and I
are confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong."
Macklin held his head in both hands. "Why did you two select
me
?"
"You're an important man, doctor," Ferris said. "Nobody would care if
Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believe
us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man
of your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronic
migraine. You do."
"Yes, I do," Macklin said. "Very well. Go ahead. Give me your
injection."
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Are you positive, doctor?" he asked
uncertainly. "Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over."
"No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now."
"There's a simple release," Ferris said smoothly.
Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.
II
"Ferris!" Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.
"Right here," the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a work
table, penciling notes. "I've been expecting you."
"Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to the
newspapers," Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against the
folded paper.
"On the contrary, I should and I did," Ferris answered. "We wanted
something dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is."
"Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcast
unverified results to the press. It's too early for that!"
"Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn't
he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right
now, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,
with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces."
"It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to the
newspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn't
enough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The public
will hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded the
Salk vaccine and the Grennell serum."
"But—"
The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.
Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered it
and listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.
"It's Macklin's wife," Ferris said. "Do you want to talk to her? I'm no
good with hysterical women."
"Hysterical?" Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.
"Hello?" Mitchell said reluctantly. "Mrs. Macklin?"
"You are the other one," the clear feminine voice said. "Your name is
Mitchell."
She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchell
thought.
"That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris's
associate."
"Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?"
"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said sharply.
"I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husband
heroin."
"That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?"
"The—trance he's in now."
"Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near your
husband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn off
by this time."
"Most known narcotics," she admitted, "but evidently you have
discovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferris
have to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?"
"Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are
calmer."
Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. "What could be wrong with
Macklin?" he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.
Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. "Let's have a
look at the test animals."
Together they marched over to the cages and peered through the
honeycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sitting
peacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of his
knuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practically
Dean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,
was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,
worrying the lock on the cage.
"Jerry
is
a great deal more active than Dean," Mitchell said.
"Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervous
energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either."
They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,
Bud and Lou, much the same.
"I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood," Mitchell ventured.
"Iron deficiency anemia?"
"Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better see
exactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin."
"There's nothing wrong with him," Ferris snapped. "He's probably just
trying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!"
Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive in
aqua-tinted aluminum.
Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed
dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum
.
As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completely
undisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.
The door unlatched and swung back.
"Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said quickly, "I'm sure we can help if there
is anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.
Mitchell."
"You had certainly
better
help him, gentlemen." She stood out of the
doorway for them to pass.
Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She wore
an expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.
The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.
"You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorized
injection," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't like that 'unauthorized'," Ferris snapped.
The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifted
a heavy eyebrow. "No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized to
treat illnesses?"
"We weren't treating an illness," Mitchell said. "We were discovering a
method of treatment. What concern is it of yours?"
The colonel smiled thinly. "Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything
that happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him."
Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.
"Can we see him?" Mitchell asked.
"Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might be
just as well. We have laws to cover that."
The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.
Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchell
suddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to
his home surroundings.
On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped building
blocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformed
man—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medical
corps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effect
carpet.
The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from the
scrupulously clean rug.
"What's wrong with him, Sidney?" the other officer asked the doctor.
"Not a thing," Sidney said. "He's the healthiest, happiest, most
well-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson."
"But—" Colonel Carson protested.
"Oh, he's changed all right," the Army doctor answered. "He's not the
same man as he used to be."
"How is he different?" Mitchell demanded.
The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. "He
used to be a mathematical genius."
"And now?" Mitchell said impatiently.
"Now he is a moron," the medic said.
III
Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor
mumbled he had a report to make.
Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each
other.
"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.
"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a
moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."
"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense.
But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,
your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."
"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn
in life that you don't get out of books, son."
"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the
two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."
"But—" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very
well. Let's step into the hall."
Ferris followed them docilely.
"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.
"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.
"How?"
Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.
"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with
some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"
"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make
him understand."
"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if
he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.
"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.
"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the
virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in
the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that
necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain
cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris
explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the
blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain
cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.
"I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin
means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto
before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You
might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital
is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly
once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You
can
?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was
going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.
"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have
antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a
beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."
"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the
knees.
"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning
in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've
been saying and I don't like it."
"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"
"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."
"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."
"
With
my headaches, like before?"
Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to
frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions
properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is
a dismal failure."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.
Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw
Macklin slowly shaking his head.
"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original
state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,
worrying."
"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.
How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,
what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's
peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife
and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"
Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.
"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell
said.
"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."
"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to
his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There
are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They
can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them
do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't
think
you can."
"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked
momentarily glum that it wasn't.
Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel?
I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions
for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."
"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."
They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture
window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.
"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can
cure your husband of his present condition."
"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"
"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the
treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."
She nodded. "If those are his wishes, I can't go against them."
"But Mrs. Macklin!" Mitchell protested. "You will have to get a court
order overruling your husband's wishes."
She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. "That
was my original thought. But I've redecided."
"Redecided!" Carson burst out almost hysterically.
"Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to put
him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,
where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happy
now. Like a child, but happy."
"Mrs. Macklin," the Army man said levelly, "if you don't help us
restore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court order
declaring him incompetent."
"But he is not! Legally, I mean," the woman stormed.
"Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give us
the edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once
he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and
Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin
to sanity."
"I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner," she said.
The colonel looked smug. "Why not?"
"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is
involved."
"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—"
"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of
vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to
give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To
paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."
"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment
there is
no
chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.
Macklin," Mitchell interjected.
Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live
husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him
comfortable...."
Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led
him back into the hall.
"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin
stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,
and now she can dominate him completely."
"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.
"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous
of her husband's genius."
"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell
the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."
"I'll go with you," Ferris said.
Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.
Carson squinted. "Any particular reason, doctor?"
"To celebrate," Ferris said.
The colonel shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any."
On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in
bewilderment.
IV
Macklin was playing jacks.
He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a great
curving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Pluto
and the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Not
his head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed "M" so it was all the
same.
Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.
He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to his
heart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver from
the nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.
After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.
"Hello?" Elliot Macklin said.
Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered the
phone instead of his wife.
"Can you speak freely, doctor?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course," the mathematician said. "I can talk fine."
"I mean, are you alone?"
"Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Army
doctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him give
me anything, though."
"Good boy," the biologist said. "Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.
I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you go
back to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,
don't you?"
There was a slight hesitation.
"Sure," Macklin said, "if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second if
I could have some reason for not telling you the truth."
"I suppose so," Macklin said humbly.
"You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of other
problems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind of
scientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used to
have time to think about."
"If you say so."
"Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of those
worries just as you got rid of the others?" Mitchell asked.
"I guess I'd like that," the mathematician replied.
"Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don't
you?"
"No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put me
back where I was instead of helping me more?"
"I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!"
"If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army is
watching me pretty close."
"That's alright," Mitchell said quickly. "You can bring along Colonel
Carson."
"But he won't like you fixing me up more."
"But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—I
want you to come right on over here, El."
"If you say so," Macklin said uncertainly. | Why do they want Macklin specifically to be the test subject?
(A) As a fellow scientist, he'd understand and appreciate what they're doing.
(B) He's in relatively good health, meaning he'd survive the experiment and yield resutls.
(C) He is a man of great importance, and people will believe him if it works.
(D) He has chronic migraines, making him a good candidate.
| {
"answer_start": [
241
],
"text": [
"He is a man of great importance, and people will believe him if it works."
]
} |
|
61228_GH2KIWTI_2 | 61228_GH2KIWTI_2_0 | THE BIG HEADACHE
BY JIM HARMON
What's the principal cause of headaches?
Why, having a head, of course!
I
"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to
cooperate in the experiment?" Ferris asked eagerly.
"How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?" Mitchell inquired.
"He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to
me
for help
against that repatriated fullback."
Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. "Guess I got
carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a
quick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down."
"I know," Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. "Somehow the men with the
money just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would have
financed a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the information
gained from that study is vital in cancer research."
"When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value for
anyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for a
field test." Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his
forehead. "I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestor
of all headaches."
Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression
of demonic intensity. "Ferris, would you consider—?"
"No!" the smaller man yelled. "You can't expect me to violate
professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself."
"
Our
discovery," Mitchell said politely.
"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely
ethical with even a discovery partly mine."
"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?
Our reputations don't go outside our own fields," Mitchell said. "But
now Macklin—"
Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einstein
in the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the word
"mathematician" or even "scientist" was mentioned. No one knew whether
his Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet been
able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but
looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The
government took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the
Ideal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.
For the past seven years Macklin—who
was
the Advanced Studies
Department of Firestone University—had been involved in devising a
faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the
nearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knew
that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of
Ad
astra per aspirin
.
The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.
Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild
stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was
known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of
the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several
weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen
around the campus.
Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the
laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair
behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.
"Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?" Ferris demanded,
pausing in mid-stride.
"I imagine he will," Mitchell said. "Macklin's always seemed a decent
enough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees
meetings."
"He's always treated me like dirt," Ferris said heatedly. "Everyone on
this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in
their smug faces."
Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of
scientific detachment.
There came a discreet knock on the door.
"Please come in," Mitchell said.
Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He
looked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchell
suspected that that was his intention.
He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. "Good of you to ask me over,
Steven."
Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. "How have you been,
Harold?"
Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. "Fine, thank you,
doctor."
Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. "Now
what's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the
explanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know."
Mitchell moved around the desk casually. "Actually, Doctor, we haven't
the right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be an
element of risk."
The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. "Now you
have me intrigued. What is it all about?"
"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "That's right, Steven. Migraine."
"That must be terrible," Ferris said. "All your fine reputation and
lavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearing
agony begins, can it?"
"No, Harold, it isn't," Macklin admitted. "What does your project have
to do with my headaches?"
"Doctor," Mitchell said, "what would you say the most common complaint
of man is?"
"I would have said the common cold," Macklin replied, "but I suppose
from what you have said you mean headaches."
"Headaches," Mitchell agreed. "Everybody has them at some time in his
life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide by
their headaches."
"Yes," Macklin said.
"But think," Ferris interjected, "what a boon it would be if everyone
could be cured of headaches
forever
by one simple injection."
"I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But it
would please about everybody else."
"Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscular
pains," Mitchell said.
"I see. Are you two saying you
have
such a shot? Can you cure
headaches?"
"We think we can," Ferris said.
"How can you have a specific for a number of different causes?" Macklin
asked. "I know that much about the subject."
"There
are
a number of different causes for headaches—nervous
strain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,
over-indulgence—but there is one
effect
of all of this, the one real
cause of headaches," Mitchell announced.
"We have definitely established this for this first time," Ferris added.
"That's fine," Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. "And this effect that
produces headaches is?"
"The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain," Mitchell
said eagerly. "That is, the constriction of blood vessels in the
telencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by an
over-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a
virus that feeds on pituitrin."
"That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean
the end of the race as well," Macklin said. "In certain areas it is
valuable to have a constriction of blood vessels."
"The virus," Ferris explained, "can easily be localized and stabilized.
A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebral
vessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluid
doesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain."
The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. "If this really
works, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuff
makes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than the
migraine. How should I go about removing my curse?" He reinserted the
pipe.
"I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate," Ferris said. "Our
discovery will work."
"Will work," Macklin said thoughtfully. "The operative word. It
hasn't
worked then?"
"Certainly it has," Ferris said. "On rats, on chimps...."
"But not on humans?" Macklin asked.
"Not yet," Mitchell admitted.
"Well," Macklin said. "Well." He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.
"Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectors
from the Army."
"We want you," Ferris told him.
Macklin coughed. "I don't want to overestimate my value but the
government wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of this
project. My wife would like it even less."
Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see him
mouthing the word
yellow
.
"Doctor," Mitchell said quickly, "I know it's a tremendous favor to
ask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.
Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of our
studies we can get no more financial backing. We
should
run a
large-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.
We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of our
resources."
"I'm tempted," Macklin said hesitantly, "but the answer is go. I mean
'
no
'. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much to
others to take the rest—the risk, I mean."
Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. "I really
would like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that it
means another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain through
my temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the rioting
pools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh."
Ferris smiled. "Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Produces
nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn't
it? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I've
heard some say they preferred the migraine."
Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to
tend it in a worn leather case. "Tell me," he said, "what is the worst
that could happen to me?"
"Low blood pressure," Ferris said.
"That's not so bad," Macklin said. "How low can it get?"
"When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,"
Mitchell said.
A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. "Is there much
risk of that?"
"Practically none," Mitchell said. "We have to give you the worst
possibilities.
All
our test animals survived and seem perfectly happy
and contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and I
are confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong."
Macklin held his head in both hands. "Why did you two select
me
?"
"You're an important man, doctor," Ferris said. "Nobody would care if
Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believe
us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man
of your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronic
migraine. You do."
"Yes, I do," Macklin said. "Very well. Go ahead. Give me your
injection."
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Are you positive, doctor?" he asked
uncertainly. "Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over."
"No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now."
"There's a simple release," Ferris said smoothly.
Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.
II
"Ferris!" Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.
"Right here," the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a work
table, penciling notes. "I've been expecting you."
"Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to the
newspapers," Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against the
folded paper.
"On the contrary, I should and I did," Ferris answered. "We wanted
something dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is."
"Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcast
unverified results to the press. It's too early for that!"
"Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn't
he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right
now, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,
with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces."
"It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to the
newspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn't
enough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The public
will hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded the
Salk vaccine and the Grennell serum."
"But—"
The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.
Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered it
and listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.
"It's Macklin's wife," Ferris said. "Do you want to talk to her? I'm no
good with hysterical women."
"Hysterical?" Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.
"Hello?" Mitchell said reluctantly. "Mrs. Macklin?"
"You are the other one," the clear feminine voice said. "Your name is
Mitchell."
She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchell
thought.
"That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris's
associate."
"Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?"
"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said sharply.
"I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husband
heroin."
"That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?"
"The—trance he's in now."
"Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near your
husband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn off
by this time."
"Most known narcotics," she admitted, "but evidently you have
discovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferris
have to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?"
"Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are
calmer."
Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. "What could be wrong with
Macklin?" he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.
Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. "Let's have a
look at the test animals."
Together they marched over to the cages and peered through the
honeycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sitting
peacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of his
knuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practically
Dean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,
was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,
worrying the lock on the cage.
"Jerry
is
a great deal more active than Dean," Mitchell said.
"Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervous
energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either."
They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,
Bud and Lou, much the same.
"I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood," Mitchell ventured.
"Iron deficiency anemia?"
"Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better see
exactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin."
"There's nothing wrong with him," Ferris snapped. "He's probably just
trying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!"
Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive in
aqua-tinted aluminum.
Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed
dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum
.
As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completely
undisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.
The door unlatched and swung back.
"Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said quickly, "I'm sure we can help if there
is anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.
Mitchell."
"You had certainly
better
help him, gentlemen." She stood out of the
doorway for them to pass.
Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She wore
an expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.
The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.
"You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorized
injection," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't like that 'unauthorized'," Ferris snapped.
The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifted
a heavy eyebrow. "No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized to
treat illnesses?"
"We weren't treating an illness," Mitchell said. "We were discovering a
method of treatment. What concern is it of yours?"
The colonel smiled thinly. "Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything
that happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him."
Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.
"Can we see him?" Mitchell asked.
"Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might be
just as well. We have laws to cover that."
The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.
Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchell
suddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to
his home surroundings.
On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped building
blocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformed
man—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medical
corps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effect
carpet.
The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from the
scrupulously clean rug.
"What's wrong with him, Sidney?" the other officer asked the doctor.
"Not a thing," Sidney said. "He's the healthiest, happiest, most
well-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson."
"But—" Colonel Carson protested.
"Oh, he's changed all right," the Army doctor answered. "He's not the
same man as he used to be."
"How is he different?" Mitchell demanded.
The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. "He
used to be a mathematical genius."
"And now?" Mitchell said impatiently.
"Now he is a moron," the medic said.
III
Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor
mumbled he had a report to make.
Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each
other.
"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.
"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a
moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."
"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense.
But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,
your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."
"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn
in life that you don't get out of books, son."
"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the
two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."
"But—" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very
well. Let's step into the hall."
Ferris followed them docilely.
"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.
"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.
"How?"
Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.
"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with
some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"
"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make
him understand."
"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if
he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.
"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.
"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the
virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in
the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that
necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain
cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris
explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the
blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain
cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.
"I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin
means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto
before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You
might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital
is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly
once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You
can
?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was
going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.
"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have
antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a
beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."
"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the
knees.
"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning
in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've
been saying and I don't like it."
"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"
"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."
"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."
"
With
my headaches, like before?"
Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to
frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions
properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is
a dismal failure."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.
Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw
Macklin slowly shaking his head.
"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original
state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,
worrying."
"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.
How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,
what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's
peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife
and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"
Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.
"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell
said.
"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."
"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to
his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There
are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They
can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them
do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't
think
you can."
"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked
momentarily glum that it wasn't.
Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel?
I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions
for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."
"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."
They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture
window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.
"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can
cure your husband of his present condition."
"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"
"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the
treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."
She nodded. "If those are his wishes, I can't go against them."
"But Mrs. Macklin!" Mitchell protested. "You will have to get a court
order overruling your husband's wishes."
She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. "That
was my original thought. But I've redecided."
"Redecided!" Carson burst out almost hysterically.
"Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to put
him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,
where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happy
now. Like a child, but happy."
"Mrs. Macklin," the Army man said levelly, "if you don't help us
restore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court order
declaring him incompetent."
"But he is not! Legally, I mean," the woman stormed.
"Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give us
the edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once
he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and
Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin
to sanity."
"I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner," she said.
The colonel looked smug. "Why not?"
"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is
involved."
"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—"
"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of
vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to
give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To
paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."
"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment
there is
no
chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.
Macklin," Mitchell interjected.
Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live
husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him
comfortable...."
Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led
him back into the hall.
"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin
stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,
and now she can dominate him completely."
"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.
"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous
of her husband's genius."
"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell
the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."
"I'll go with you," Ferris said.
Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.
Carson squinted. "Any particular reason, doctor?"
"To celebrate," Ferris said.
The colonel shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any."
On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in
bewilderment.
IV
Macklin was playing jacks.
He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a great
curving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Pluto
and the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Not
his head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed "M" so it was all the
same.
Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.
He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to his
heart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver from
the nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.
After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.
"Hello?" Elliot Macklin said.
Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered the
phone instead of his wife.
"Can you speak freely, doctor?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course," the mathematician said. "I can talk fine."
"I mean, are you alone?"
"Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Army
doctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him give
me anything, though."
"Good boy," the biologist said. "Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.
I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you go
back to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,
don't you?"
There was a slight hesitation.
"Sure," Macklin said, "if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second if
I could have some reason for not telling you the truth."
"I suppose so," Macklin said humbly.
"You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of other
problems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind of
scientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used to
have time to think about."
"If you say so."
"Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of those
worries just as you got rid of the others?" Mitchell asked.
"I guess I'd like that," the mathematician replied.
"Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don't
you?"
"No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put me
back where I was instead of helping me more?"
"I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!"
"If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army is
watching me pretty close."
"That's alright," Mitchell said quickly. "You can bring along Colonel
Carson."
"But he won't like you fixing me up more."
"But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—I
want you to come right on over here, El."
"If you say so," Macklin said uncertainly. | How would the shot theoretically cure headaches?
(A) It would address the root problem of every headache. By focusing on the core behind a headache, it can be used in any circumstance.
(B) It would separately address any problem that could cause a headache, from tumors to fatigue. It's built to be an answer to everything.
(C) It constricts the blood vessels with an artificial virus.
(D) It's not a cure at all, it's a virus.
| {
"answer_start": [
55
],
"text": [
"It would address the root problem of every headache. By focusing on the core behind a headache, it can be used in any circumstance."
]
} |
|
61228_GH2KIWTI_3 | 61228_GH2KIWTI_3_0 | THE BIG HEADACHE
BY JIM HARMON
What's the principal cause of headaches?
Why, having a head, of course!
I
"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to
cooperate in the experiment?" Ferris asked eagerly.
"How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?" Mitchell inquired.
"He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to
me
for help
against that repatriated fullback."
Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. "Guess I got
carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a
quick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down."
"I know," Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. "Somehow the men with the
money just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would have
financed a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the information
gained from that study is vital in cancer research."
"When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value for
anyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for a
field test." Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his
forehead. "I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestor
of all headaches."
Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression
of demonic intensity. "Ferris, would you consider—?"
"No!" the smaller man yelled. "You can't expect me to violate
professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself."
"
Our
discovery," Mitchell said politely.
"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely
ethical with even a discovery partly mine."
"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?
Our reputations don't go outside our own fields," Mitchell said. "But
now Macklin—"
Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einstein
in the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the word
"mathematician" or even "scientist" was mentioned. No one knew whether
his Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet been
able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but
looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The
government took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the
Ideal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.
For the past seven years Macklin—who
was
the Advanced Studies
Department of Firestone University—had been involved in devising a
faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the
nearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knew
that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of
Ad
astra per aspirin
.
The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.
Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild
stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was
known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of
the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several
weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen
around the campus.
Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the
laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair
behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.
"Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?" Ferris demanded,
pausing in mid-stride.
"I imagine he will," Mitchell said. "Macklin's always seemed a decent
enough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees
meetings."
"He's always treated me like dirt," Ferris said heatedly. "Everyone on
this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in
their smug faces."
Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of
scientific detachment.
There came a discreet knock on the door.
"Please come in," Mitchell said.
Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He
looked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchell
suspected that that was his intention.
He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. "Good of you to ask me over,
Steven."
Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. "How have you been,
Harold?"
Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. "Fine, thank you,
doctor."
Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. "Now
what's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the
explanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know."
Mitchell moved around the desk casually. "Actually, Doctor, we haven't
the right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be an
element of risk."
The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. "Now you
have me intrigued. What is it all about?"
"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "That's right, Steven. Migraine."
"That must be terrible," Ferris said. "All your fine reputation and
lavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearing
agony begins, can it?"
"No, Harold, it isn't," Macklin admitted. "What does your project have
to do with my headaches?"
"Doctor," Mitchell said, "what would you say the most common complaint
of man is?"
"I would have said the common cold," Macklin replied, "but I suppose
from what you have said you mean headaches."
"Headaches," Mitchell agreed. "Everybody has them at some time in his
life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide by
their headaches."
"Yes," Macklin said.
"But think," Ferris interjected, "what a boon it would be if everyone
could be cured of headaches
forever
by one simple injection."
"I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But it
would please about everybody else."
"Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscular
pains," Mitchell said.
"I see. Are you two saying you
have
such a shot? Can you cure
headaches?"
"We think we can," Ferris said.
"How can you have a specific for a number of different causes?" Macklin
asked. "I know that much about the subject."
"There
are
a number of different causes for headaches—nervous
strain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,
over-indulgence—but there is one
effect
of all of this, the one real
cause of headaches," Mitchell announced.
"We have definitely established this for this first time," Ferris added.
"That's fine," Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. "And this effect that
produces headaches is?"
"The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain," Mitchell
said eagerly. "That is, the constriction of blood vessels in the
telencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by an
over-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a
virus that feeds on pituitrin."
"That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean
the end of the race as well," Macklin said. "In certain areas it is
valuable to have a constriction of blood vessels."
"The virus," Ferris explained, "can easily be localized and stabilized.
A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebral
vessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluid
doesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain."
The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. "If this really
works, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuff
makes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than the
migraine. How should I go about removing my curse?" He reinserted the
pipe.
"I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate," Ferris said. "Our
discovery will work."
"Will work," Macklin said thoughtfully. "The operative word. It
hasn't
worked then?"
"Certainly it has," Ferris said. "On rats, on chimps...."
"But not on humans?" Macklin asked.
"Not yet," Mitchell admitted.
"Well," Macklin said. "Well." He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.
"Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectors
from the Army."
"We want you," Ferris told him.
Macklin coughed. "I don't want to overestimate my value but the
government wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of this
project. My wife would like it even less."
Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see him
mouthing the word
yellow
.
"Doctor," Mitchell said quickly, "I know it's a tremendous favor to
ask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.
Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of our
studies we can get no more financial backing. We
should
run a
large-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.
We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of our
resources."
"I'm tempted," Macklin said hesitantly, "but the answer is go. I mean
'
no
'. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much to
others to take the rest—the risk, I mean."
Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. "I really
would like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that it
means another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain through
my temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the rioting
pools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh."
Ferris smiled. "Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Produces
nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn't
it? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I've
heard some say they preferred the migraine."
Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to
tend it in a worn leather case. "Tell me," he said, "what is the worst
that could happen to me?"
"Low blood pressure," Ferris said.
"That's not so bad," Macklin said. "How low can it get?"
"When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,"
Mitchell said.
A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. "Is there much
risk of that?"
"Practically none," Mitchell said. "We have to give you the worst
possibilities.
All
our test animals survived and seem perfectly happy
and contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and I
are confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong."
Macklin held his head in both hands. "Why did you two select
me
?"
"You're an important man, doctor," Ferris said. "Nobody would care if
Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believe
us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man
of your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronic
migraine. You do."
"Yes, I do," Macklin said. "Very well. Go ahead. Give me your
injection."
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Are you positive, doctor?" he asked
uncertainly. "Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over."
"No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now."
"There's a simple release," Ferris said smoothly.
Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.
II
"Ferris!" Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.
"Right here," the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a work
table, penciling notes. "I've been expecting you."
"Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to the
newspapers," Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against the
folded paper.
"On the contrary, I should and I did," Ferris answered. "We wanted
something dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is."
"Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcast
unverified results to the press. It's too early for that!"
"Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn't
he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right
now, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,
with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces."
"It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to the
newspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn't
enough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The public
will hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded the
Salk vaccine and the Grennell serum."
"But—"
The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.
Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered it
and listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.
"It's Macklin's wife," Ferris said. "Do you want to talk to her? I'm no
good with hysterical women."
"Hysterical?" Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.
"Hello?" Mitchell said reluctantly. "Mrs. Macklin?"
"You are the other one," the clear feminine voice said. "Your name is
Mitchell."
She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchell
thought.
"That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris's
associate."
"Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?"
"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said sharply.
"I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husband
heroin."
"That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?"
"The—trance he's in now."
"Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near your
husband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn off
by this time."
"Most known narcotics," she admitted, "but evidently you have
discovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferris
have to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?"
"Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are
calmer."
Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. "What could be wrong with
Macklin?" he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.
Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. "Let's have a
look at the test animals."
Together they marched over to the cages and peered through the
honeycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sitting
peacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of his
knuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practically
Dean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,
was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,
worrying the lock on the cage.
"Jerry
is
a great deal more active than Dean," Mitchell said.
"Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervous
energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either."
They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,
Bud and Lou, much the same.
"I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood," Mitchell ventured.
"Iron deficiency anemia?"
"Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better see
exactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin."
"There's nothing wrong with him," Ferris snapped. "He's probably just
trying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!"
Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive in
aqua-tinted aluminum.
Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed
dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum
.
As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completely
undisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.
The door unlatched and swung back.
"Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said quickly, "I'm sure we can help if there
is anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.
Mitchell."
"You had certainly
better
help him, gentlemen." She stood out of the
doorway for them to pass.
Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She wore
an expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.
The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.
"You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorized
injection," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't like that 'unauthorized'," Ferris snapped.
The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifted
a heavy eyebrow. "No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized to
treat illnesses?"
"We weren't treating an illness," Mitchell said. "We were discovering a
method of treatment. What concern is it of yours?"
The colonel smiled thinly. "Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything
that happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him."
Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.
"Can we see him?" Mitchell asked.
"Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might be
just as well. We have laws to cover that."
The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.
Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchell
suddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to
his home surroundings.
On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped building
blocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformed
man—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medical
corps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effect
carpet.
The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from the
scrupulously clean rug.
"What's wrong with him, Sidney?" the other officer asked the doctor.
"Not a thing," Sidney said. "He's the healthiest, happiest, most
well-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson."
"But—" Colonel Carson protested.
"Oh, he's changed all right," the Army doctor answered. "He's not the
same man as he used to be."
"How is he different?" Mitchell demanded.
The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. "He
used to be a mathematical genius."
"And now?" Mitchell said impatiently.
"Now he is a moron," the medic said.
III
Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor
mumbled he had a report to make.
Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each
other.
"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.
"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a
moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."
"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense.
But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,
your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."
"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn
in life that you don't get out of books, son."
"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the
two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."
"But—" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very
well. Let's step into the hall."
Ferris followed them docilely.
"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.
"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.
"How?"
Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.
"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with
some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"
"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make
him understand."
"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if
he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.
"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.
"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the
virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in
the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that
necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain
cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris
explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the
blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain
cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.
"I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin
means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto
before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You
might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital
is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly
once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You
can
?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was
going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.
"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have
antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a
beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."
"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the
knees.
"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning
in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've
been saying and I don't like it."
"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"
"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."
"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."
"
With
my headaches, like before?"
Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to
frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions
properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is
a dismal failure."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.
Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw
Macklin slowly shaking his head.
"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original
state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,
worrying."
"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.
How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,
what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's
peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife
and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"
Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.
"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell
said.
"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."
"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to
his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There
are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They
can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them
do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't
think
you can."
"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked
momentarily glum that it wasn't.
Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel?
I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions
for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."
"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."
They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture
window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.
"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can
cure your husband of his present condition."
"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"
"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the
treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."
She nodded. "If those are his wishes, I can't go against them."
"But Mrs. Macklin!" Mitchell protested. "You will have to get a court
order overruling your husband's wishes."
She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. "That
was my original thought. But I've redecided."
"Redecided!" Carson burst out almost hysterically.
"Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to put
him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,
where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happy
now. Like a child, but happy."
"Mrs. Macklin," the Army man said levelly, "if you don't help us
restore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court order
declaring him incompetent."
"But he is not! Legally, I mean," the woman stormed.
"Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give us
the edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once
he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and
Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin
to sanity."
"I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner," she said.
The colonel looked smug. "Why not?"
"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is
involved."
"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—"
"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of
vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to
give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To
paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."
"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment
there is
no
chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.
Macklin," Mitchell interjected.
Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live
husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him
comfortable...."
Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led
him back into the hall.
"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin
stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,
and now she can dominate him completely."
"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.
"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous
of her husband's genius."
"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell
the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."
"I'll go with you," Ferris said.
Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.
Carson squinted. "Any particular reason, doctor?"
"To celebrate," Ferris said.
The colonel shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any."
On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in
bewilderment.
IV
Macklin was playing jacks.
He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a great
curving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Pluto
and the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Not
his head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed "M" so it was all the
same.
Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.
He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to his
heart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver from
the nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.
After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.
"Hello?" Elliot Macklin said.
Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered the
phone instead of his wife.
"Can you speak freely, doctor?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course," the mathematician said. "I can talk fine."
"I mean, are you alone?"
"Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Army
doctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him give
me anything, though."
"Good boy," the biologist said. "Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.
I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you go
back to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,
don't you?"
There was a slight hesitation.
"Sure," Macklin said, "if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second if
I could have some reason for not telling you the truth."
"I suppose so," Macklin said humbly.
"You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of other
problems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind of
scientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used to
have time to think about."
"If you say so."
"Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of those
worries just as you got rid of the others?" Mitchell asked.
"I guess I'd like that," the mathematician replied.
"Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don't
you?"
"No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put me
back where I was instead of helping me more?"
"I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!"
"If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army is
watching me pretty close."
"That's alright," Mitchell said quickly. "You can bring along Colonel
Carson."
"But he won't like you fixing me up more."
"But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—I
want you to come right on over here, El."
"If you say so," Macklin said uncertainly. | Why is Macklin's reaction to the shot alarming?
(A) He's acting as if he took a narcotic, enough that Mrs. Macklin suspects that they gave him heroin?
(B) He's much too happy, as observed by Sidney. He's inexplicably healthy and too adjusted.
(C) He seems unbothered by it, despite the fact that it should have changed his life.
(D) The shot has somehow removed his intelligence.
| {
"answer_start": [
340
],
"text": [
"The shot has somehow removed his intelligence."
]
} |
|
61228_GH2KIWTI_4 | 61228_GH2KIWTI_4_0 | THE BIG HEADACHE
BY JIM HARMON
What's the principal cause of headaches?
Why, having a head, of course!
I
"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to
cooperate in the experiment?" Ferris asked eagerly.
"How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?" Mitchell inquired.
"He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to
me
for help
against that repatriated fullback."
Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. "Guess I got
carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a
quick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down."
"I know," Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. "Somehow the men with the
money just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would have
financed a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the information
gained from that study is vital in cancer research."
"When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value for
anyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for a
field test." Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his
forehead. "I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestor
of all headaches."
Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression
of demonic intensity. "Ferris, would you consider—?"
"No!" the smaller man yelled. "You can't expect me to violate
professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself."
"
Our
discovery," Mitchell said politely.
"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely
ethical with even a discovery partly mine."
"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?
Our reputations don't go outside our own fields," Mitchell said. "But
now Macklin—"
Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einstein
in the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the word
"mathematician" or even "scientist" was mentioned. No one knew whether
his Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet been
able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but
looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The
government took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the
Ideal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.
For the past seven years Macklin—who
was
the Advanced Studies
Department of Firestone University—had been involved in devising a
faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the
nearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knew
that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of
Ad
astra per aspirin
.
The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.
Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild
stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was
known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of
the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several
weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen
around the campus.
Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the
laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair
behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.
"Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?" Ferris demanded,
pausing in mid-stride.
"I imagine he will," Mitchell said. "Macklin's always seemed a decent
enough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees
meetings."
"He's always treated me like dirt," Ferris said heatedly. "Everyone on
this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in
their smug faces."
Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of
scientific detachment.
There came a discreet knock on the door.
"Please come in," Mitchell said.
Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He
looked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchell
suspected that that was his intention.
He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. "Good of you to ask me over,
Steven."
Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. "How have you been,
Harold?"
Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. "Fine, thank you,
doctor."
Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. "Now
what's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the
explanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know."
Mitchell moved around the desk casually. "Actually, Doctor, we haven't
the right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be an
element of risk."
The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. "Now you
have me intrigued. What is it all about?"
"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "That's right, Steven. Migraine."
"That must be terrible," Ferris said. "All your fine reputation and
lavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearing
agony begins, can it?"
"No, Harold, it isn't," Macklin admitted. "What does your project have
to do with my headaches?"
"Doctor," Mitchell said, "what would you say the most common complaint
of man is?"
"I would have said the common cold," Macklin replied, "but I suppose
from what you have said you mean headaches."
"Headaches," Mitchell agreed. "Everybody has them at some time in his
life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide by
their headaches."
"Yes," Macklin said.
"But think," Ferris interjected, "what a boon it would be if everyone
could be cured of headaches
forever
by one simple injection."
"I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But it
would please about everybody else."
"Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscular
pains," Mitchell said.
"I see. Are you two saying you
have
such a shot? Can you cure
headaches?"
"We think we can," Ferris said.
"How can you have a specific for a number of different causes?" Macklin
asked. "I know that much about the subject."
"There
are
a number of different causes for headaches—nervous
strain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,
over-indulgence—but there is one
effect
of all of this, the one real
cause of headaches," Mitchell announced.
"We have definitely established this for this first time," Ferris added.
"That's fine," Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. "And this effect that
produces headaches is?"
"The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain," Mitchell
said eagerly. "That is, the constriction of blood vessels in the
telencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by an
over-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a
virus that feeds on pituitrin."
"That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean
the end of the race as well," Macklin said. "In certain areas it is
valuable to have a constriction of blood vessels."
"The virus," Ferris explained, "can easily be localized and stabilized.
A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebral
vessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluid
doesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain."
The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. "If this really
works, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuff
makes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than the
migraine. How should I go about removing my curse?" He reinserted the
pipe.
"I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate," Ferris said. "Our
discovery will work."
"Will work," Macklin said thoughtfully. "The operative word. It
hasn't
worked then?"
"Certainly it has," Ferris said. "On rats, on chimps...."
"But not on humans?" Macklin asked.
"Not yet," Mitchell admitted.
"Well," Macklin said. "Well." He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.
"Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectors
from the Army."
"We want you," Ferris told him.
Macklin coughed. "I don't want to overestimate my value but the
government wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of this
project. My wife would like it even less."
Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see him
mouthing the word
yellow
.
"Doctor," Mitchell said quickly, "I know it's a tremendous favor to
ask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.
Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of our
studies we can get no more financial backing. We
should
run a
large-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.
We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of our
resources."
"I'm tempted," Macklin said hesitantly, "but the answer is go. I mean
'
no
'. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much to
others to take the rest—the risk, I mean."
Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. "I really
would like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that it
means another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain through
my temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the rioting
pools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh."
Ferris smiled. "Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Produces
nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn't
it? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I've
heard some say they preferred the migraine."
Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to
tend it in a worn leather case. "Tell me," he said, "what is the worst
that could happen to me?"
"Low blood pressure," Ferris said.
"That's not so bad," Macklin said. "How low can it get?"
"When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,"
Mitchell said.
A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. "Is there much
risk of that?"
"Practically none," Mitchell said. "We have to give you the worst
possibilities.
All
our test animals survived and seem perfectly happy
and contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and I
are confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong."
Macklin held his head in both hands. "Why did you two select
me
?"
"You're an important man, doctor," Ferris said. "Nobody would care if
Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believe
us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man
of your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronic
migraine. You do."
"Yes, I do," Macklin said. "Very well. Go ahead. Give me your
injection."
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Are you positive, doctor?" he asked
uncertainly. "Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over."
"No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now."
"There's a simple release," Ferris said smoothly.
Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.
II
"Ferris!" Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.
"Right here," the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a work
table, penciling notes. "I've been expecting you."
"Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to the
newspapers," Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against the
folded paper.
"On the contrary, I should and I did," Ferris answered. "We wanted
something dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is."
"Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcast
unverified results to the press. It's too early for that!"
"Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn't
he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right
now, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,
with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces."
"It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to the
newspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn't
enough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The public
will hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded the
Salk vaccine and the Grennell serum."
"But—"
The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.
Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered it
and listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.
"It's Macklin's wife," Ferris said. "Do you want to talk to her? I'm no
good with hysterical women."
"Hysterical?" Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.
"Hello?" Mitchell said reluctantly. "Mrs. Macklin?"
"You are the other one," the clear feminine voice said. "Your name is
Mitchell."
She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchell
thought.
"That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris's
associate."
"Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?"
"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said sharply.
"I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husband
heroin."
"That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?"
"The—trance he's in now."
"Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near your
husband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn off
by this time."
"Most known narcotics," she admitted, "but evidently you have
discovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferris
have to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?"
"Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are
calmer."
Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. "What could be wrong with
Macklin?" he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.
Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. "Let's have a
look at the test animals."
Together they marched over to the cages and peered through the
honeycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sitting
peacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of his
knuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practically
Dean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,
was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,
worrying the lock on the cage.
"Jerry
is
a great deal more active than Dean," Mitchell said.
"Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervous
energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either."
They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,
Bud and Lou, much the same.
"I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood," Mitchell ventured.
"Iron deficiency anemia?"
"Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better see
exactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin."
"There's nothing wrong with him," Ferris snapped. "He's probably just
trying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!"
Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive in
aqua-tinted aluminum.
Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed
dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum
.
As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completely
undisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.
The door unlatched and swung back.
"Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said quickly, "I'm sure we can help if there
is anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.
Mitchell."
"You had certainly
better
help him, gentlemen." She stood out of the
doorway for them to pass.
Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She wore
an expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.
The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.
"You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorized
injection," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't like that 'unauthorized'," Ferris snapped.
The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifted
a heavy eyebrow. "No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized to
treat illnesses?"
"We weren't treating an illness," Mitchell said. "We were discovering a
method of treatment. What concern is it of yours?"
The colonel smiled thinly. "Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything
that happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him."
Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.
"Can we see him?" Mitchell asked.
"Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might be
just as well. We have laws to cover that."
The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.
Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchell
suddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to
his home surroundings.
On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped building
blocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformed
man—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medical
corps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effect
carpet.
The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from the
scrupulously clean rug.
"What's wrong with him, Sidney?" the other officer asked the doctor.
"Not a thing," Sidney said. "He's the healthiest, happiest, most
well-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson."
"But—" Colonel Carson protested.
"Oh, he's changed all right," the Army doctor answered. "He's not the
same man as he used to be."
"How is he different?" Mitchell demanded.
The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. "He
used to be a mathematical genius."
"And now?" Mitchell said impatiently.
"Now he is a moron," the medic said.
III
Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor
mumbled he had a report to make.
Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each
other.
"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.
"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a
moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."
"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense.
But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,
your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."
"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn
in life that you don't get out of books, son."
"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the
two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."
"But—" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very
well. Let's step into the hall."
Ferris followed them docilely.
"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.
"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.
"How?"
Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.
"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with
some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"
"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make
him understand."
"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if
he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.
"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.
"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the
virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in
the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that
necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain
cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris
explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the
blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain
cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.
"I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin
means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto
before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You
might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital
is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly
once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You
can
?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was
going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.
"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have
antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a
beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."
"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the
knees.
"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning
in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've
been saying and I don't like it."
"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"
"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."
"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."
"
With
my headaches, like before?"
Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to
frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions
properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is
a dismal failure."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.
Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw
Macklin slowly shaking his head.
"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original
state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,
worrying."
"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.
How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,
what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's
peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife
and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"
Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.
"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell
said.
"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."
"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to
his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There
are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They
can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them
do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't
think
you can."
"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked
momentarily glum that it wasn't.
Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel?
I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions
for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."
"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."
They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture
window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.
"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can
cure your husband of his present condition."
"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"
"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the
treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."
She nodded. "If those are his wishes, I can't go against them."
"But Mrs. Macklin!" Mitchell protested. "You will have to get a court
order overruling your husband's wishes."
She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. "That
was my original thought. But I've redecided."
"Redecided!" Carson burst out almost hysterically.
"Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to put
him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,
where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happy
now. Like a child, but happy."
"Mrs. Macklin," the Army man said levelly, "if you don't help us
restore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court order
declaring him incompetent."
"But he is not! Legally, I mean," the woman stormed.
"Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give us
the edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once
he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and
Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin
to sanity."
"I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner," she said.
The colonel looked smug. "Why not?"
"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is
involved."
"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—"
"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of
vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to
give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To
paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."
"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment
there is
no
chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.
Macklin," Mitchell interjected.
Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live
husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him
comfortable...."
Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led
him back into the hall.
"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin
stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,
and now she can dominate him completely."
"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.
"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous
of her husband's genius."
"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell
the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."
"I'll go with you," Ferris said.
Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.
Carson squinted. "Any particular reason, doctor?"
"To celebrate," Ferris said.
The colonel shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any."
On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in
bewilderment.
IV
Macklin was playing jacks.
He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a great
curving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Pluto
and the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Not
his head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed "M" so it was all the
same.
Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.
He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to his
heart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver from
the nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.
After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.
"Hello?" Elliot Macklin said.
Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered the
phone instead of his wife.
"Can you speak freely, doctor?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course," the mathematician said. "I can talk fine."
"I mean, are you alone?"
"Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Army
doctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him give
me anything, though."
"Good boy," the biologist said. "Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.
I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you go
back to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,
don't you?"
There was a slight hesitation.
"Sure," Macklin said, "if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second if
I could have some reason for not telling you the truth."
"I suppose so," Macklin said humbly.
"You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of other
problems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind of
scientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used to
have time to think about."
"If you say so."
"Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of those
worries just as you got rid of the others?" Mitchell asked.
"I guess I'd like that," the mathematician replied.
"Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don't
you?"
"No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put me
back where I was instead of helping me more?"
"I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!"
"If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army is
watching me pretty close."
"That's alright," Mitchell said quickly. "You can bring along Colonel
Carson."
"But he won't like you fixing me up more."
"But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—I
want you to come right on over here, El."
"If you say so," Macklin said uncertainly. | Why does the army get involved with the situation?
(A) Macklin is a valuable asset to them, and they don't want something to happen to his intellect.
(B) The army is investigating Mitchell and Ferris because they gave unauthorized medical assistance.
(C) Mrs. Macklin called them in to help.
(D) They want to see the results of Ferris and Mitchell's trial.
| {
"answer_start": [
57
],
"text": [
"Macklin is a valuable asset to them, and they don't want something to happen to his intellect."
]
} |
|
61228_GH2KIWTI_5 | 61228_GH2KIWTI_5_0 | THE BIG HEADACHE
BY JIM HARMON
What's the principal cause of headaches?
Why, having a head, of course!
I
"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to
cooperate in the experiment?" Ferris asked eagerly.
"How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?" Mitchell inquired.
"He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to
me
for help
against that repatriated fullback."
Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. "Guess I got
carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a
quick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down."
"I know," Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. "Somehow the men with the
money just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would have
financed a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the information
gained from that study is vital in cancer research."
"When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value for
anyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for a
field test." Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his
forehead. "I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestor
of all headaches."
Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression
of demonic intensity. "Ferris, would you consider—?"
"No!" the smaller man yelled. "You can't expect me to violate
professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself."
"
Our
discovery," Mitchell said politely.
"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely
ethical with even a discovery partly mine."
"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?
Our reputations don't go outside our own fields," Mitchell said. "But
now Macklin—"
Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einstein
in the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the word
"mathematician" or even "scientist" was mentioned. No one knew whether
his Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet been
able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but
looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The
government took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the
Ideal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.
For the past seven years Macklin—who
was
the Advanced Studies
Department of Firestone University—had been involved in devising a
faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the
nearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knew
that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of
Ad
astra per aspirin
.
The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.
Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild
stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was
known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of
the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several
weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen
around the campus.
Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the
laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair
behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.
"Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?" Ferris demanded,
pausing in mid-stride.
"I imagine he will," Mitchell said. "Macklin's always seemed a decent
enough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees
meetings."
"He's always treated me like dirt," Ferris said heatedly. "Everyone on
this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in
their smug faces."
Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of
scientific detachment.
There came a discreet knock on the door.
"Please come in," Mitchell said.
Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He
looked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchell
suspected that that was his intention.
He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. "Good of you to ask me over,
Steven."
Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. "How have you been,
Harold?"
Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. "Fine, thank you,
doctor."
Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. "Now
what's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the
explanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know."
Mitchell moved around the desk casually. "Actually, Doctor, we haven't
the right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be an
element of risk."
The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. "Now you
have me intrigued. What is it all about?"
"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "That's right, Steven. Migraine."
"That must be terrible," Ferris said. "All your fine reputation and
lavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearing
agony begins, can it?"
"No, Harold, it isn't," Macklin admitted. "What does your project have
to do with my headaches?"
"Doctor," Mitchell said, "what would you say the most common complaint
of man is?"
"I would have said the common cold," Macklin replied, "but I suppose
from what you have said you mean headaches."
"Headaches," Mitchell agreed. "Everybody has them at some time in his
life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide by
their headaches."
"Yes," Macklin said.
"But think," Ferris interjected, "what a boon it would be if everyone
could be cured of headaches
forever
by one simple injection."
"I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But it
would please about everybody else."
"Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscular
pains," Mitchell said.
"I see. Are you two saying you
have
such a shot? Can you cure
headaches?"
"We think we can," Ferris said.
"How can you have a specific for a number of different causes?" Macklin
asked. "I know that much about the subject."
"There
are
a number of different causes for headaches—nervous
strain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,
over-indulgence—but there is one
effect
of all of this, the one real
cause of headaches," Mitchell announced.
"We have definitely established this for this first time," Ferris added.
"That's fine," Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. "And this effect that
produces headaches is?"
"The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain," Mitchell
said eagerly. "That is, the constriction of blood vessels in the
telencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by an
over-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a
virus that feeds on pituitrin."
"That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean
the end of the race as well," Macklin said. "In certain areas it is
valuable to have a constriction of blood vessels."
"The virus," Ferris explained, "can easily be localized and stabilized.
A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebral
vessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluid
doesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain."
The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. "If this really
works, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuff
makes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than the
migraine. How should I go about removing my curse?" He reinserted the
pipe.
"I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate," Ferris said. "Our
discovery will work."
"Will work," Macklin said thoughtfully. "The operative word. It
hasn't
worked then?"
"Certainly it has," Ferris said. "On rats, on chimps...."
"But not on humans?" Macklin asked.
"Not yet," Mitchell admitted.
"Well," Macklin said. "Well." He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.
"Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectors
from the Army."
"We want you," Ferris told him.
Macklin coughed. "I don't want to overestimate my value but the
government wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of this
project. My wife would like it even less."
Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see him
mouthing the word
yellow
.
"Doctor," Mitchell said quickly, "I know it's a tremendous favor to
ask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.
Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of our
studies we can get no more financial backing. We
should
run a
large-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.
We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of our
resources."
"I'm tempted," Macklin said hesitantly, "but the answer is go. I mean
'
no
'. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much to
others to take the rest—the risk, I mean."
Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. "I really
would like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that it
means another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain through
my temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the rioting
pools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh."
Ferris smiled. "Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Produces
nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn't
it? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I've
heard some say they preferred the migraine."
Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to
tend it in a worn leather case. "Tell me," he said, "what is the worst
that could happen to me?"
"Low blood pressure," Ferris said.
"That's not so bad," Macklin said. "How low can it get?"
"When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,"
Mitchell said.
A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. "Is there much
risk of that?"
"Practically none," Mitchell said. "We have to give you the worst
possibilities.
All
our test animals survived and seem perfectly happy
and contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and I
are confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong."
Macklin held his head in both hands. "Why did you two select
me
?"
"You're an important man, doctor," Ferris said. "Nobody would care if
Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believe
us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man
of your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronic
migraine. You do."
"Yes, I do," Macklin said. "Very well. Go ahead. Give me your
injection."
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Are you positive, doctor?" he asked
uncertainly. "Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over."
"No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now."
"There's a simple release," Ferris said smoothly.
Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.
II
"Ferris!" Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.
"Right here," the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a work
table, penciling notes. "I've been expecting you."
"Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to the
newspapers," Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against the
folded paper.
"On the contrary, I should and I did," Ferris answered. "We wanted
something dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is."
"Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcast
unverified results to the press. It's too early for that!"
"Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn't
he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right
now, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,
with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces."
"It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to the
newspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn't
enough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The public
will hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded the
Salk vaccine and the Grennell serum."
"But—"
The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.
Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered it
and listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.
"It's Macklin's wife," Ferris said. "Do you want to talk to her? I'm no
good with hysterical women."
"Hysterical?" Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.
"Hello?" Mitchell said reluctantly. "Mrs. Macklin?"
"You are the other one," the clear feminine voice said. "Your name is
Mitchell."
She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchell
thought.
"That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris's
associate."
"Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?"
"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said sharply.
"I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husband
heroin."
"That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?"
"The—trance he's in now."
"Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near your
husband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn off
by this time."
"Most known narcotics," she admitted, "but evidently you have
discovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferris
have to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?"
"Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are
calmer."
Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. "What could be wrong with
Macklin?" he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.
Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. "Let's have a
look at the test animals."
Together they marched over to the cages and peered through the
honeycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sitting
peacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of his
knuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practically
Dean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,
was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,
worrying the lock on the cage.
"Jerry
is
a great deal more active than Dean," Mitchell said.
"Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervous
energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either."
They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,
Bud and Lou, much the same.
"I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood," Mitchell ventured.
"Iron deficiency anemia?"
"Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better see
exactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin."
"There's nothing wrong with him," Ferris snapped. "He's probably just
trying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!"
Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive in
aqua-tinted aluminum.
Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed
dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum
.
As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completely
undisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.
The door unlatched and swung back.
"Mrs. Macklin," Mitchell said quickly, "I'm sure we can help if there
is anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.
Mitchell."
"You had certainly
better
help him, gentlemen." She stood out of the
doorway for them to pass.
Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She wore
an expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.
The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.
"You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorized
injection," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't like that 'unauthorized'," Ferris snapped.
The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifted
a heavy eyebrow. "No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized to
treat illnesses?"
"We weren't treating an illness," Mitchell said. "We were discovering a
method of treatment. What concern is it of yours?"
The colonel smiled thinly. "Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything
that happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him."
Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.
"Can we see him?" Mitchell asked.
"Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might be
just as well. We have laws to cover that."
The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.
Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchell
suddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to
his home surroundings.
On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped building
blocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformed
man—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medical
corps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effect
carpet.
The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from the
scrupulously clean rug.
"What's wrong with him, Sidney?" the other officer asked the doctor.
"Not a thing," Sidney said. "He's the healthiest, happiest, most
well-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson."
"But—" Colonel Carson protested.
"Oh, he's changed all right," the Army doctor answered. "He's not the
same man as he used to be."
"How is he different?" Mitchell demanded.
The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. "He
used to be a mathematical genius."
"And now?" Mitchell said impatiently.
"Now he is a moron," the medic said.
III
Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor
mumbled he had a report to make.
Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each
other.
"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?" Mitchell asked.
"Not an idiot," Colonel Carson corrected primly. "Dr. Macklin is a
moron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid."
"I'm not so dumb," Macklin said defensively.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Carson said. "I didn't intend any offense.
But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,
your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron."
"That's just on book learning," Macklin said. "There's a lot you learn
in life that you don't get out of books, son."
"I'm confident that's true, sir," Colonel Carson said. He turned to the
two biologists. "Perhaps we had better speak outside."
"But—" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. "Very
well. Let's step into the hall."
Ferris followed them docilely.
"What have you done to him?" the colonel asked straightforwardly.
"We merely cured him of his headaches," Mitchell said.
"How?"
Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.
"You mean," the Army officer said levelly "you have infected him with
some kind of a disease to rot his brain?"
"No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can make
him understand."
"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if
he had been kicked in the head by a mule," Colonel Carson said.
"I think I can explain," Ferris interrupted.
"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the
virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in
the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that
necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain
cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris
explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the
blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain
cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.
"I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin
means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto
before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You
might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital
is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly
once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You
can
?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was
going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.
"Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have
antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a
beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary."
"Good!" Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at the
knees.
"Just you wait a second now, boys," Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning
in the doorway, holding his pipe. "I've been listening to what you've
been saying and I don't like it."
"What do you mean you don't like it?" Carson demanded. He added, "Sir?"
"I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be."
"Yes, doctor," Mitchell said eagerly, "just as you used to be."
"
With
my headaches, like before?"
Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to
frame an answer. "Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions
properly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research is
a dismal failure."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ferris remarked cheerfully.
Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw
Macklin slowly shaking his head.
"No, sir!" the mathematician said. "I shall not go back to my original
state. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,
worrying."
"You mean wondering," Mitchell said.
Macklin nodded. "Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.
How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,
what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It's
peaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wife
and all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?"
Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.
"That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him," Mitchell
said.
"It's not his decision to make," the colonel said. "He's an idiot now."
"No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared to
his former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. There
are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They
can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them
do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't
think
you can."
"No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state." The colonel looked
momentarily glum that it wasn't.
Mitchell looked back at Macklin. "Where did his wife get to, Colonel?
I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisions
for himself. Perhaps she could influence him."
"Maybe," the colonel said. "Let's find her."
They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture
window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.
"Mrs. Macklin," the colonel began, "these gentlemen believe they can
cure your husband of his present condition."
"Really?" she said. "Did you speak to Elliot about that?"
"Y-yes," Colonel Carson said, "but he's not himself. He refused the
treatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence."
She nodded. "If those are his wishes, I can't go against them."
"But Mrs. Macklin!" Mitchell protested. "You will have to get a court
order overruling your husband's wishes."
She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. "That
was my original thought. But I've redecided."
"Redecided!" Carson burst out almost hysterically.
"Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to put
him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,
where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happy
now. Like a child, but happy."
"Mrs. Macklin," the Army man said levelly, "if you don't help us
restore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court order
declaring him incompetent."
"But he is not! Legally, I mean," the woman stormed.
"Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give us
the edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once
he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and
Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin
to sanity."
"I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner," she said.
The colonel looked smug. "Why not?"
"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is
involved."
"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—"
"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of
vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to
give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To
paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."
"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment
there is
no
chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.
Macklin," Mitchell interjected.
Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live
husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him
comfortable...."
Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led
him back into the hall.
"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin
stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,
and now she can dominate him completely."
"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.
"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous
of her husband's genius."
"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell
the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."
"I'll go with you," Ferris said.
Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.
Carson squinted. "Any particular reason, doctor?"
"To celebrate," Ferris said.
The colonel shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any."
On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in
bewilderment.
IV
Macklin was playing jacks.
He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a great
curving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Pluto
and the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Not
his head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed "M" so it was all the
same.
Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.
He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to his
heart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver from
the nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.
After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.
"Hello?" Elliot Macklin said.
Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered the
phone instead of his wife.
"Can you speak freely, doctor?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course," the mathematician said. "I can talk fine."
"I mean, are you alone?"
"Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Army
doctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him give
me anything, though."
"Good boy," the biologist said. "Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.
I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you go
back to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,
don't you?"
There was a slight hesitation.
"Sure," Macklin said, "if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second if
I could have some reason for not telling you the truth."
"I suppose so," Macklin said humbly.
"You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of other
problems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind of
scientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used to
have time to think about."
"If you say so."
"Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of those
worries just as you got rid of the others?" Mitchell asked.
"I guess I'd like that," the mathematician replied.
"Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don't
you?"
"No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put me
back where I was instead of helping me more?"
"I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!"
"If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army is
watching me pretty close."
"That's alright," Mitchell said quickly. "You can bring along Colonel
Carson."
"But he won't like you fixing me up more."
"But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—I
want you to come right on over here, El."
"If you say so," Macklin said uncertainly. | Why does Macklin have objections to going back?
(A) He doesn't want to have to undergo another experiment.
(B) He doesn't want to go back. He'd rather be "stupid" than having headaches and always worrying.
(C) It's too risky to try the experiment again. He'd rather take his chances the way he is now.
(D) He doesn't want to go back. In the state he's in, he's too "stupid" to realize the ramifications of what happened to him.
| {
"answer_start": [
115
],
"text": [
"He doesn't want to go back. He'd rather be \"stupid\" than having headaches and always worrying."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_1 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_1_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | What is the main conflict at the start?
(A) The American astronauts can't get in contact with anyone who speaks English.
(B) Winship's reefer stops working properly.
(C) The Americans are unable to tell when the scheduled explosion is going off.
(D) The harsh sunlight is making the astronauts perspire.
| {
"answer_start": [
176
],
"text": [
"The Americans are unable to tell when the scheduled explosion is going off."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_2 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_2_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | What happens after the blast?
(A) The Russians are unconcerned, meaning their job went well.
(B) The dome is severely damaged.
(C) Static prevent the astronauts from contacting anybody anymore.
(D) The dome is still standing but suffered a leak, making a new problem.
| {
"answer_start": [
206
],
"text": [
"The dome is still standing but suffered a leak, making a new problem."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_3 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_3_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | Why does the fact that Finogenov had a wooden desk sent up to space a point of contention for Winship?
(A) He wished he had the same luxury. The Americans have much less room to work with.
(B) He's frustrated with the current situation and is finding himself envious of all the things they don't have.
(C) It's too much of an effort to do something like that, making it a waste of time and resources.
(D) To him, it's a frivolous display of power and nothing more, especially when materials like aluminum are available.
| {
"answer_start": [
413
],
"text": [
"To him, it's a frivolous display of power and nothing more, especially when materials like aluminum are available."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_4 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_4_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | What goes wrong just as Winship makes contact with earth?
(A) His communications were cut off, and he has no way to talk to Wilkin.
(B) He is starting to lose air and needs to have it replaced.
(C) He runs out of air and can't breathe.
(D) The communications equipment stops working, and the people down at Earth start to worry.
| {
"answer_start": [
140
],
"text": [
"He is starting to lose air and needs to have it replaced."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_5 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_5_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | What goes wrong with the calking compound?
(A) It ends up being epoxy resin, which activates and starts melting.
(B) They're unsure how to read the instructions and mix it incorrectly.
(C) It's the wrong substance. Because of the language barrier, the Russians set them off with the wrong barrel.
(D) The barrel doesn't fit in the space they need it to.
| {
"answer_start": [
49
],
"text": [
"It ends up being epoxy resin, which activates and starts melting."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_6 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_6_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | Why do the Americans need to ask the Russians for help?
(A) They don't understand the instructions for the compound.
(B) They need help fixing the leak. They don't know how to use the calking compound.
(C) They need more manpower to help fix the rest of the dome.
(D) They need more calking compound to fix the leak. All of what they had has already hardened.
| {
"answer_start": [
276
],
"text": [
"They need more calking compound to fix the leak. All of what they had has already hardened."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_7 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_7_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | What reason would the Russians have to drive the Americans off?
(A) The two stations are much too close to one another.
(B) They want the sole ability to conduct research on the moon.
(C) They know the Americans are ahead of them technology-wise.
(D) They don't trust the Americans, the same way Winship distrusts them.
| {
"answer_start": [
128
],
"text": [
"They want the sole ability to conduct research on the moon."
]
} |
|
61242_KVDQ6X2A_8 | 61242_KVDQ6X2A_8_0 | The Winning of the Moon
BY KRIS NEVILLE
The enemy was friendly enough.
Trouble was—their friendship
was as dangerous as their hate!
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
"
Nyet
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
"When?"
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
"Static?"
"Nope."
"We'll get static on these things."
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
"Is Pinov. Help?"
"
Nyet.
"
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
"Let's all—"
"No. I've got to cool off."
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
"Charlie! Charlie!"
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
"It's—"
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
Nyet!
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
"Tough."
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
"By the lug cabinet."
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
"Not yet."
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
There was a splatter of static.
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
"Still coming out."
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
"Come on in," he said dryly.
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
"This is Major Winship."
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
"Little leak. You?"
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
"Les has got it."
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
"Okay."
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
"Right here."
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
"Les, have you found it?"
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
"Well,
find
it."
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
"Skip, help look."
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
"How do they possibly think—?"
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
II
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
"Let's eat."
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
They ate.
"Really horrible stuff."
"Nutritious."
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
"Finogenov had a
clay
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
wooden
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
"They've got the power-plants for it."
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
"If you've got all that power...."
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
"That's going to take awhile."
"It's something to do while we wait."
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
They roused Earth.
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
"Just a moment."
"Is everything all right?"
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
Air, Major Winship said silently.
Leak?
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
Oh.
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
"We're here," Major Winship said.
"All right? Are you all right?"
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
ostensible
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
III
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
that
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
"I am not kidding."
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
"He had five or six of them."
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
three thousand pounds
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
They thought over the problem for a while.
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
"I
know
that."
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
"It's the salt."
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
"Cozy's the word."
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
"Sorry."
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
"Sandpaper, I guess."
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
"
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
is
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
"Huh?"
"Out! Out!"
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
"Watch out! There.
There!
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler. | What is the new problem the American astronauts are left with at the end of the passage?
(A) The dome has no been compromised.
(B) The barrel has destroyed their air supply.
(C) The calking compound has hardened and become unusable.
(D) They can no longer fix the leek in the dome.
| {
"answer_start": [
135
],
"text": [
"The barrel has destroyed their air supply."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_1 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_1_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | What is the purpose of the Orthan taking over a human host?
(A) To get the full human experience, and understand what makes the planet worthwhile.
(B) To investigate the planet without vslling attention, and determine if it's worth colonizing.
(C) To assimilate the human host into the Hord, and add to it their knowledge.
(D) To examine the memories of the human host, and see what knowledge they have.
| {
"answer_start": [
155
],
"text": [
"To investigate the planet without vslling attention, and determine if it's worth colonizing."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_2 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_2_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | Lew's memories are intermingling with Thigs, making him feel what?
(A) Worry. He begins to worry that he won't be able to separate from Lew properly later on.
(B) Discontent with his regular life as he becomes more enamored with Earth life.
(C) Anger at that state of Orthan civilization.
(D) Worry. He worries that the Hord will no longer accept him when he returns.
| {
"answer_start": [
167
],
"text": [
"Discontent with his regular life as he becomes more enamored with Earth life."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_3 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_3_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | What is the major difference between Orthan and Earth culture that appeals to Thig?
(A) Earth people wear clothing, where Orthan people wear none.
(B) Orthan people are unsentimental, and after experiencing emotion Thig wants to be rid of it.
(C) Earth people enjoy a much more lush planet, with more things to enjoy.
(D) Earth people are individuals, capable of making their own decisions in life.
| {
"answer_start": [
330
],
"text": [
"Earth people are individuals, capable of making their own decisions in life."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_4 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_4_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | Why does Thig change his mind about the invasion?
(A) He remembers Ellen and the love he felt, and doesn't want to leave.
(B) He has forgotten why he lives for the Hord.
(C) He contracted a disease while on Earth that's making him make wild decisions.
(D) He is fearful that Earth's influence will affect the Orthan as it did him.
| {
"answer_start": [
56
],
"text": [
"He remembers Ellen and the love he felt, and doesn't want to leave."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_5 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_5_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | What saves Thig life in his fight with Torp?
(A) Torp did not have the strength to kill him, despite hitting him for some time.
(B) Thip's body had been left last to be disposed of.
(C) Torp allowed his rage to blind him, so he did not realize he left Thig alive.
(D) Torp wants to investigate his body for diseases before killing him.
| {
"answer_start": [
192
],
"text": [
"Torp allowed his rage to blind him, so he did not realize he left Thig alive."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_6 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_6_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | What ultimately brings Torp down?
(A) He went mad from the same disease that's afflicting Thip.
(B) Thip shoots him with a blaster before he can comprehend what happened.
(C) His own madness. His overly trained mind can't handle the new circumstances.
(D) He was never trained for a situation like this. He's not able to keep up with Thip.
| {
"answer_start": [
104
],
"text": [
"Thip shoots him with a blaster before he can comprehend what happened."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_7 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_7_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | Why is Thig's return to Earth bittersweet?
(A) His Orthan background will always be at odds with his new life.
(B) It's grueling to remember what he did to Terry, and to always have to be him now.
(C) Though he wants it, he'll never truly belong. He'll always be an otherworlder.
(D) He misses his life as an Orthan, even though he's come to enjoy Earth.
| {
"answer_start": [
207
],
"text": [
"Though he wants it, he'll never truly belong. He'll always be an otherworlder."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_8 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_8_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | Why does Thig leave a note at Torp's desk?
(A) He wants to make sure no one comes to invade Earth, and have reason to fear doing so.
(B) He wants to warn the other Orthans about the potential dangers of Earth.
(C) He wants someone to understand what had happened.
(D) He feels badly about killing Kam and Torp, and wants to leave a final message on their behalf.
| {
"answer_start": [
49
],
"text": [
"He wants to make sure no one comes to invade Earth, and have reason to fear doing so."
]
} |
|
62198_H1IWTV7E_9 | 62198_H1IWTV7E_9_0 | QUEST OF THIG
By BASIL WELLS
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
West
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
had
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
And there his writing ended abruptly.
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! | What was it that ultimately converted Thig to being human?
(A) Lewis Terry. Lewis's mind took over his completely.
(B) Disease. It was as Torp suspected. Being on Earth affected him too deeply.
(C) Comfort. Earth culture is not nearly as controlling as Orthan culture.
(D) Love. Love for his new family, and the uncertainties of human life.
| {
"answer_start": [
281
],
"text": [
"Love. Love for his new family, and the uncertainties of human life."
]
} |
|
63398_X7DLF0GV_1 | 63398_X7DLF0GV_1_0 | THE HAIRY ONES
by BASIL WELLS
Marooned on a world within a world, aided
by a slim girl and an old warrior, Patrolman
Sisko Rolf was fighting his greatest
battle—to bring life to dying Mars.
"The outlaw ships are attacking!" Old Garmon Nash's harsh voice snapped
like a thunderclap in the cramped rocket flyer's cabin. "Five or six of
them. Cut the searchlights!"
Sisko Rolf's stocky body was a blur of motion as he cut the rocket
jets, doused the twin searchlights, and switched over to the audio
beams that served so well on the surface when blind flying was in
order. But here in the cavern world, thirty-seventh in the linked
series of vast caves that underlie the waterless wastes of Mars, the
reflected waves of sound were of little value. Distances were far too
cramped—disaster might loom but a few hundred feet away.
"Trapped us neatly," Rolf said through clenched teeth. "Tolled into
their underground hideout by that water-runner we tried to capture. We
can't escape, that's certain. They know these caverns better than....
We'll down some of them, though."
"Right!" That was old Garmon Nash, his fellow patrolman aboard the
Planet Patrol ship as he swung the deadly slimness of his rocket
blast's barrel around to center on the fiery jets that betrayed the
approaching outlaw flyers.
Three times he fired the gun, the rocket projectiles blasting off with
their invisible preliminary jets of gas, and three times an enemy craft
flared up into an intolerable torch of flame before they realized the
patrol ship had fired upon them. Then a barrage of enemy rocket shells
exploded into life above and before them.
Rolf swung the lax controls over hard as the bursts of fire revealed a
looming barrier of stone dead ahead, and then he felt the tough skin
of the flyer crumple inward. The cabin seemed to telescope about him.
In a slow sort of wonder Rolf felt the scrape of rock against metal,
and then the screeching of air through the myriad rents in the cabin's
meralloy walls grew to a mad whining wail.
Down plunged the battered ship, downward ever downward. Somehow Rolf
found the strength to wrap his fingers around the control levers and
snap on a quick burst from the landing rockets. Their mad speed checked
momentarily, but the nose of the vertically plunging ship dissolved
into an inferno of flame.
The ship struck; split open like a rotten squash, and Rolf felt himself
being flung far outward through thick blackness. For an eternity it
seemed he hung in the darkness before something smashed the breath and
feeling from his nerveless body. With a last glimmer of sanity he knew
that he lay crushed against a rocky wall.
Much later Rolf groaned with the pain of bruised muscles and tried to
rise. To his amazement he could move all his limbs. Carefully he came
to his knees and so to his feet. Not a bone was broken, unless the
sharp breathlessness that strained at his chest meant cracked ribs.
There was light in the narrow pit in which he found himself, light and
heat from the yet-glowing debris of the rocket flyer. The outlaws had
blasted the crashed ship, his practiced eyes told him, and Garmon Nash
must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a
deep crevice.
In the fading glow of the super-heated metal the vertical walls above
mocked him. There could be no ascent from this natural prison-pit, and
even if there were he could never hope to reach the surface forty miles
and more overhead. The floors of the thirty-seven caves through which
they had so carefully jetted were a splintered, creviced series of
canyon-like wastes, and as he ascended the rarefied atmosphere of the
higher levels would spell death.
Rolf laughed. Without a pressure mask on the surface of Mars an
Earthman was licked. Without water and food certain death grinned in
his face, for beyond the sand-buried entrance to these lost equatorial
caves there were no pressure domes for hundreds of miles. Here at
least the air was thick enough to support life, and somewhere nearby
the outlaws who smuggled their precious contraband water into the
water-starved domes of North Mars lay hidden.
The young patrolman unzippered his jacket pocket and felt for the
emergency concentrate bars that were standard equipment. Half of the
oval bar he crushed between his teeth, and when the concentrated energy
flooded into his muscles he set off around the irregular wall of the
pit.
He found the opening less than ten paces from the starting point, an
empty cavity higher than a man and half as wide. The glow from the
gutted ship was failing and he felt for the solar torch that hugged
flatly against his hip. He uncapped the torch and the miniature sun
glowed redly from its lensed prison to reveal the rocky corridor
stretching out ahead.
Light! How many hours later it was when the first faint glow of white
light reached his eyes Rolf did not know—it had seemed an eternity of
endless plodding along that smooth-floored descending tunnel.
Rolf capped the solar torch. No use wasting the captive energy
needlessly he reasoned. And he loosened the expoder in its holster as
he moved carefully forward. The outlaw headquarters might be close
ahead, headquarters where renegade Frogs, Venusians from the southern
sunken marshes of Mars, and Earthmen from dusty North Mars, concealed
their precious hoard of water from the thirsty colonists of North Mars.
"They may have found the sunken seas of Mars," thought Rolf as he moved
alertly forward, "water that would give the mining domes new life." His
fists clenched dryly. "Water that should be free!"
Then the light brightened before him as he rounded a shouldering wall
of smoothly trimmed stone, and the floor fell away beneath his feet!
He found himself shooting downward into a vast void that glowed softly
with a mysterious all-pervading radiance.
His eyes went searching out, out into undreamed distance. For miles
below him there was nothing but emptiness, and for miles before him
there was that same glowing vacancy. Above the cavern's roof soared
majestically upward; he could see the narrow dark slit through which
his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through
the vaulted rocky dome of this fantastic abyss.
It was then, even as he snapped the release of his spinner and the
nested blades spun free overhead, that he saw the slowly turning bulk
of the cloud-swathed world, a tiny five mile green ball of a planet!
The weird globe was divided equally into hemispheres, and as the tiny
world turned between its confining columns a green, lake-dotted half
alternated with a blasted, splintered black waste of rocky desert. As
the spinner dropped him slowly down into the vast emptiness of the
great shining gulf, Rolf could see that a broad band of stone divided
the green fertile plains and forests from the desolate desert wastes of
the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was
content to let it move in that direction—from the heights of the wall
he could scout out the country beyond.
The wall expanded as he came nearer to the pygmy planet. The spinner
had slowed its speed; it seemed to Rolf that he must be falling free
in space for a time, but the feeble gravity of the tiny world tugged
at him more strongly as he neared the wall. And the barrier became a
jumbled mass of roughly-dressed stone slabs, from whose earth-filled
crevices sprouted green life.
So slowly was the spinner dropping that the blackened desolation of the
other hemisphere came sliding up beneath his boots. He looked down into
great gashes in the blackness of the desert and saw there the green of
sunken oases and watered canyons. He drifted slowly toward the opposite
loom of the mysterious wall with a swift wind off the desert behind him.
A hundred yards from the base of the rocky wall his feet scraped
through black dust, and he came to a stop. Deftly Rolf nested the
spinners again in their pack before he set out toward the heaped-up
mass of stone blocks that was the wall.
Ten steps he took before an excited voice called out shrilly from the
rocks ahead. Rolf's slitted gray eyes narrowed yet more and his hand
dropped to the compact expoder machine-gun holstered at his hip. There
was the movement of a dark shape behind the screen of vines and ragged
bushes.
"Down, Altha," a deeper voice rumbled from above, "it's one of the
Enemy."
The voice had spoken in English! Rolf took a step forward eagerly and
then doubt made his feet falter. There were Earthmen as well as Frogs
among the outlaws. This mysterious world that floated above the cavern
floor might be their headquarters.
"But, Mark," the voice that was now unmistakably feminine argued, "he
wears the uniform of a patrolman."
"May be a trick." The deep voice was doubtful. "You know their leader,
Cannon, wanted you. This may be a trick to join the Outcasts and
kidnap you."
The girl's voice was merry. "Come on Spider-legs," she said.
Rolf found himself staring, open-mouthed, at the sleek-limbed vision
that parted the bushes and came toward him. A beautiful woman she was,
with the long burnished copper of her hair down around her waist, but
beneath the meager shortness of the skin tunic he saw that her firm
flesh was covered with a fine reddish coat of hair. Even her face was
sleek and gleaming with its coppery covering of down.
"Hello, patrol-a-man," she said shyly.
An elongated pencil-ray of a man bounced nervously out to her side.
"Altha," he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a
long-fingered hand, "why do you never listen to me? I promised your
father I'd look after you." He hitched at his tattered skin robe.
The girl laughed, a low liquid sound that made Rolf's heart pump
faster. "This Mark Tanner of mine," she explained to the patrolman,
"is always afraid for me. He does not remember that I can see into the
minds of others."
She smiled again as Rolf's face slowly reddened. "Do not be ashamed,"
she said. "I am not angry that you think I am—well, not too
unattractive."
Rolf threw up the mental block that was the inheritance from his
grueling years of training on Earth Base. His instructors there
had known that a few gifted mortals possess the power of a limited
telepathy, and the secrets of the Planet Patrol must be guarded.
"That is better, perhaps." The girl's face was demure. "And now perhaps
you will visit us in the safety of the vaults of ancient Aryk."
"Sorry," said the tall man as Rolf sprang easily from the ground to
their side. "I'm always forgetting the mind-reading abilities of the
Hairy People."
"She one of them?" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch.
"Mother was." Mark Tanner's voice was louder. "Father was Wayne Stark.
Famous explorer you know. I was his assistant."
"Sure." Rolf nodded. "Lost in equatorial wastelands—uh, about twenty
years ago—2053, I believe."
"Only we were not lost on the surface," explained Tanner, his booming
voice much too powerful for his reedy body, "Wayne Stark was searching
for the lost seas of Mars. Traced them underground. Found them too." He
paused to look nervously out across the blasted wasteland.
"We ran out of fuel here on Lomihi," he finished, "with the vanished
surface waters of Mars less than four miles beneath us."
Rolf followed the direction of the other's pale blue eyes. Overhead now
hung the bottom of the cavern. An almost circular island of pale yellow
lifted above the restless dark waters of a vast sea. Rolf realized with
a wrench of sudden fear that they actually hung head downward like
flies walking across a ceiling.
"There," roared Tanner's voice, "is one of the seas of Mars."
"One," repeated Rolf slowly. "You mean there are more?"
"Dozens of them," the older man's voice throbbed with helpless rage.
"Enough to make the face of Mars green again. Cavern after cavern lies
beyond this first one, their floors flooded with water."
Rolf felt new strength pump into his tired bruised muscles. Here lay
the salvation of Earth's thirsting colonies almost within reach. Once
he could lead the scientists of North Mars to this treasure trove of
water....
"Mark!" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve
and he dropped beside her in the shelter of a clump of coarse-leaved
gray bushes. "The Furry Women attack!"
A hundred paces away Rolf made the dark shapes of armed warriors as
they filed downward from the Barrier into the blackened desolation of
the desert half of Lomihi.
"Enemies?" he whispered to Mark Tanner hoarsely.
"Right." The older man was slipping the stout bowstring into its
notched recess on the upper end of his long bow. "They cross the
Barrier from the fertile plains of Nyd to raid the Hairy People. They
take them for slaves."
"I must warn them." Altha's lips thinned and her brown-flecked eyes
flamed.
"The outlaws may capture," warned Tanner. "They have taken over the
canyons of Gur and Norpar, remember."
"I will take the glider." Altha was on her feet, her body crouched
over to take advantage of the sheltering shrubs. She threaded her way
swiftly back along a rocky corridor in the face of the Barrier toward
the ruins of ancient Aryk.
Tanner shrugged his shoulders. "What can I do? Altha has the blood
of the Hairy People in her veins. She will warn them even though the
outlaws have turned her people against her."
Rolf watched the column of barbarically clad warriors file out upon the
barren desert and swing to the right along the base of the Barrier.
Spear tips and bared swords glinted dully.
"They will pass within a few feet!" he hissed.
"Right." Tanner's fingers bit into Rolf's arm. "Pray that the wind does
not shift, their nostrils are sensitive as those of the weasels they
resemble."
Rolf's eyes slitted. There was something vaguely unhuman about those
gracefully marching figures. He wondered what Tanner had meant by
calling them weasels, wondered until they came closer.
Then he knew. Above half naked feminine bodies, sinuous and supple
as the undulating coils of a serpent, rose the snaky ditigrade head
of a weasel-brute! Their necks were long and wide, merging into
the gray-furred muscles of their narrow bodies until they seemed
utterly shoulderless, and beneath their furry pelts the ripples of
smooth-flowing muscles played rhythmically. There was a stench, a musky
penetrating scent that made the flesh of his body crawl.
"See!" Tanner's voice was muted. "Giffa, Queen of the Furry Ones!"
Borne on a carved and polished litter of ebon-hued wood and yellowed
bone lolled the hideous queen of that advancing horde. Gaunt of body
she was, her scarred gray-furred hide hanging loose upon her breastless
frame. One eye was gone but the other gleamed, black and beady, from
her narrow earless skull. And the skulls of rodents and men alike
linked together into ghastly festoons about her heavy, short-legged
litter.
Men bore the litter, eight broad-shouldered red-haired men whose arms
had been cut off at the shoulders and whose naked backs bore the weals
of countless lashes. Their bodies, like that of Altha, were covered
with a silky coat of reddish hair.
Rolf raised his expoder, red anger clouding his eyes as he saw these
maimed beasts of burden, but the hand of Mark Tanner pressed down
firmly across his arm. The older man shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "When Altha has warned the Hairy People we can cut
off their retreat. After they have passed I will arouse the Outcasts
who live here upon the Barrier. Though their blood is that of the two
races mingled they hate the Furry Ones."
A shadow passed over their hiding place. The Furry Amazons too saw the
indistinct darkness and looked up. High overhead drifted the narrow
winged shape of a glider, and the warrior women shrieked their hatred.
Gone now was their chance for a surprise attack on the isolated canyons
of the Hairy People.
They halted, clustered about their leader. Giffa snarled quick orders
at them, her chisel-teeth clicking savagely. The column swung out into
the wasteland toward the nearest sunken valleys of the Hairy People.
Rolf and Mark Tanner came to their feet.
Abruptly, then, the wind veered. From behind the two Earthmen it came,
bearing the scent of their bodies out to the sensitive nostrils of the
beast-women. Again the column turned. They glimpsed the two men and a
hideous scrawling battle-cry burst from their throats.
Rolf's expoder rattled briefly like a high-speed sewing machine as he
flicked its muzzle back and forth along the ranks of attacking Furry
Ones. Dozens of the hideous weasel creatures fell as the needles of
explosive blasted them but hundreds more were swarming over their
fallen sisters. Mark Tanner's bow twanged again and again as he drove
arrows at the bloodthirsty warrior women. But the Furry Ones ran
fearlessly into that rain of death.
The expoder hammered in Rolf's heavy fist.
Tanner smashed an elbow into Rolf's side. "Retreat!" he gasped.
The Furry Amazons swarmed up over the lower terraces of rocks, their
snaky heads thrust forward and their swords slashing. The two Earthmen
bounded up and backward to the next jumbled layer of giant blocks
behind them, their powerful earthly muscles negating Lomihi's feeble
gravity. Spears showered thick about them and then they dropped behind
the sheltering bulk of a rough square boulder.
"Now where?" Rolf snapped another burst of expoder needles at the furry
attackers as he asked.
"To the vaults beneath the Forbidden City," Mark Tanner cried. "None
but the Outcasts and we two have entered the streets of deserted Aryk."
The bald scientist slung his bow over his head and one shoulder and
went bounding away along a shadowy crevice that plunged raggedly into
the heart of the Barrier. Rolf blasted another spurt of explosive
needles at the Furry Ones and followed.
Darkness thickened as they penetrated into the maze of the Barrier's
shattered heart. An unseen furry shape sprang upon Rolf's shoulders
and as he sank to his knees he felt hot saliva drip like acid upon his
neck. His fist sent the attacker's bulk smashing against the rocky
floor before fangs or claws could rip at his tender flesh, and he heard
a choked snarl that ended convulsively in silence.
Bat-winged blobs of life dragged wet leathery hide across his face, and
beneath his feet slimy wriggling things crushed into quivering pulp.
Then there was faint light again, and the high-vaulted roof of a rock
dungeon rose above him.
Mark Tanner was peering out a slitted embrasure that overlooked the
desolate land of the Hairy People.
Tanner's finger pointed. "Altha!" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the
glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. "She had warned the
Hairy People, and now she returns."
"The weasel heads won't follow us here?" asked Rolf.
Tanner laughed. "Hardly. They fear the spirits of the Ancients too much
for that. They believe the invisible powers will drink their souls."
"Then how about telling me about this hanging world?"
"Simply the whim of an ancient Martian ruler. As I have learned from
the inscriptions and metal tablets here in Aryk he could not conquer
all of Mars so he created a world that would be all his own."
Rolf laughed. "Like the pleasure globes of the wealthy on Earth."
"Right." Tanner kept his eyes on the enlarging winged shape of Altha's
flyer as he spoke. "Later, when the nations of Mars began draining off
the seas and hoarding them in their underground caverns, Lomihi became
a fortress for the few thousand aristocrats and slaves who escaped the
surface wars.
"The Hairy People were the rulers," he went on, "and the Furry Ones
were their slaves. In the revolt that eventually split Lomihi into two
warring races this city, Aryk, was destroyed by a strange vegetable
blight and the ancient knowledge was lost to both races."
"But," Rolf frowned thoughtfully, "what keeps Lomihi from crashing into
the island? Surely the two columns at either end cannot support it?"
"The island is the answer," said Tanner. "Somehow it blocks the force
of gravity—shields Lomihi from...." He caught his breath suddenly.
"The outlaws!" he cried. "They're after Altha."
Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail
wing. He saw the girl go gliding steeply down toward a ragged jumble
of volcanic spurs and pits and disappear from view. He turned to see
the old man pushing another crudely constructed glider toward the outer
wall of the rock chamber.
Tanner tugged at a silvery metal bar inset into the stone wall. A
section of the wall swung slowly inward. Rolf sprang to his side.
"Let me follow," he said. "I can fly a glider, and I have my expoder."
The older man's eyes were hot. He jerked at Rolf's hands and then
suddenly thought better of it. "You're right," he agreed. "Help her if
you can. Your weapon is our only hope now."
Rolf pushed up and outward with all the strength of his weary muscles.
The glider knifed forward with that first swift impetus, and drove out
over the Barrier. The Furry Ones were struggling insect shapes below
him, and he saw with a thrill that larger bodied warriors, whose bodies
glinted with a dull bronze, were attacking them from the burnt-out
wastelands. The Hairy People had come to battle the invaders.
He guided the frail wing toward the shattered badlands where the girl
had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed
near its center in a narrow strip of rocky gulch. A sudden thought made
him grin. He drove directly toward the grounded ship. With this rocket
flyer he could escape from Lomihi, return through the thirty-seven
caverns to the upper world, and give to thirsty Mars the gift of
limitless water again.
A man stood on guard just outside the flyer's oval door. Rolf lined up
his expoder and his jaw tensed. He guided the tiny soarer closer with
one hand. If he could crash the glider into the guard, well and good.
There would be no explosion of expoder needles to warn the fellow's
comrades. But if the outlaw saw him Rolf knew that he would be the
first to fire—his was the element of surprise.
A score of feet lay between them, and suddenly the outlaw whirled
about. Rolf pressed the firing button; the expoder clicked over once
and the trimmer key jammed, and the doughy-faced Venusian swung up his
own long-barreled expoder!
Rolf snapped his weapon overhand at the Frog's hairless skull. The
fish-bellied alien ducked but his expoder swung off the target
momentarily. In that instant Rolf launched himself from the open
framework of the slowly diving glider, full upon the Venusian.
They went down, Rolf swinging his fist like a hammer. He felt the Frog
go limp and he loosed a relieved whistle. Now with a rocket flyer and
the guard's rifle expoder in his grasp the problem of escape from
the inner caverns was solved. He would rescue the girl, stop at the
Forbidden City for Mark Tanner, and blast off for the upper crust forty
miles and more overhead.
He knelt over the prostrate Venusian, using his belt and a strip torn
from his greenish tunic to bind the unconscious man. The knots were
not too tight, the man could free himself in the course of a few hours.
He shrugged his shoulders wearily and started to get up.
A foot scraped on stone behind him. He spun on bent knees and flung
himself fifty feet to the further side of the narrow gulch with the
same movement. Expoder needles splintered the rocks about him as he
dropped behind a sheltering rocky ledge, and he caught a glimpse of two
green-clad men dragging the bronze-haired body of the girl he had come
to save into the shelter of the flyer.
A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his
captured weapon's firing button. A roar of pain came from the wounded
man, and he saw an outflung arm upon the rocky ground that clenched
tightly twice and relaxed to move no more. The outlaw weapon must have
been loaded with a drum of poisoned needles, the expoder needles had
not blasted a vital spot in the man's body.
The odds were evening, he thought triumphantly. There might be another
outlaw somewhere out there in the badlands, but no more than that. The
flyer was built to accommodate no more than five passengers and four
was the usual number. He shifted his expoder to cover the opposite end
of the ship's squatty fuselage.
And something that felt like a mountain smashed into his back. He was
crushed downward, breathless, his eyes glimpsing briefly the soiled
greenish trousers of his attacker as they locked on either side of
his neck, and then blackness engulfed him as a mighty sledge battered
endlessly at his skull.
This sledge was hammering relentlessly as Rolf sensed his first
glimmer of returning light. There were two sledges, one of them that
he identified as the hammering of blood in his throbbing temples, and
the other the measured blasting pulse of rocket jets. He opened his
eyes slowly to find himself staring at the fine-crusted metal plates
of a flyer's deck. His nose was grinding into the oily muck that only
undisciplined men would have permitted to accumulate.
Cautiously his head twisted until he could look forward toward the
controls. The bound body of Altha Stark faced him, and he saw her lips
twist into a brief smile of recognition. She shook her head and frowned
as he moved his arm. But Rolf had learned that his limbs were not
bound—apparently the outlaws had considered him out of the blasting
for the moment.
By degrees Rolf worked his arm down to his belt where his solar torch
was hooked. His fingers made careful adjustments within the inset base
of the torch, pushing a lever here and adjusting a tension screw there.
The ship bumped gently as it landed and the thrum of rockets ceased.
The cabin shifted with the weight of bodies moving from their seats.
Rolf heard voices from a distance and the answering triumphant bawling
of his two captors. The moment had come. He turned the cap of the solar
torch away from his body and freed it.
Heat blasted at his body as the stepped-up output of the torch made the
oily floor flame. He lay unmoving while the thick smoke rolled over him.
"Fire!" There was panic in the outlaw's voice. Rolf came to his knees
in the blanketing fog and looked forward.
One of the men flung himself out the door, but the other reached
for the extinguisher close at hand. His thoughts were on the oily
smoke; not on the prisoners, and so the impact of Rolf's horizontally
propelled body drove the breath from his lungs before his hand could
drop to his belted expoder.
The outlaw was game. His fists slammed back at Rolf, and his knees
jolted upward toward the patrolman's vulnerable middle. But Rolf
bored in, his own knotted hands pumping, and his trained body weaving
instinctively aside from the crippling blows aimed at his body. For a
moment they fought, coughing and choking from the thickening pall of
smoke, and then the fingers of the outlaw clamped around Rolf's throat
and squeezed hard.
The patrolman was weary; the wreck in the upper cavern and the long
trek afterward through the dark tunnels had sapped his strength, and
now he felt victory slipping from his grasp.
He felt something soft bump against his legs, legs so far below that he
could hardly realize that they were his, and then he was falling with
the relentless fingers still about his throat. As from a great distant
he heard a cry of pain and the blessed air gulped into his raw throat.
His eyes cleared.
He saw Altha's bound body and head. Her jaws were clamped upon the
arm of the outlaw and even as he fought for more of the reeking smoky
air of the cabin he saw the man's clenched fist batter at her face.
Rolf swung, all the weight of his stocky body behind the blow, and the
outlaw thudded limply against the opposite wall of the little cabin.
No time to ask the girl if she were injured. The patrolman flung
himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship
rocketing skyward. Behind him the thin film of surface oil no longer
burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air.
"Patrolman," the girl's voice was beside him. "We're safe!"
"Everything bongo?" Rolf wanted to know.
"Of course," she smiled crookedly.
"Glad of that." Rolf felt the warmth of her body so close beside him. A
sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact.
Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. "Do you know," she said, "even
yet I do not know your name."
Rolf grinned up at her. "Need to?" he asked.
The girl's eyes widened. A responsive spark blazed in them. "Handier
than calling you
Shorty
all the time," she quipped.
Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten
Furry Ones racing back across the great wall toward the Plains of
Nyd. He nosed the captured ship down toward the ruined plaza of
the Forbidden City. Once Mark Tanner was aboard they would blast
surfaceward with their thrilling news that all Mars could have water in
plenty again.
Rolf snorted. "Shorty," he said disgustedly as they landed, but his arm
went out toward the girl's red-haired slimness, and curved around it. | What is so significant about this new area that Rolf is in?
(A) It is abundant with water. It would be enough for all of Mars and the colonies.
(B) The presence of Altha, and her living here in secrecy.
(C) It is a secluded area, not yet touched by most other people.
(D) The miniature planet and the way it functions.
| {
"answer_start": [
66
],
"text": [
"It is abundant with water. It would be enough for all of Mars and the colonies."
]
} |
|
63398_X7DLF0GV_2 | 63398_X7DLF0GV_2_0 | THE HAIRY ONES
by BASIL WELLS
Marooned on a world within a world, aided
by a slim girl and an old warrior, Patrolman
Sisko Rolf was fighting his greatest
battle—to bring life to dying Mars.
"The outlaw ships are attacking!" Old Garmon Nash's harsh voice snapped
like a thunderclap in the cramped rocket flyer's cabin. "Five or six of
them. Cut the searchlights!"
Sisko Rolf's stocky body was a blur of motion as he cut the rocket
jets, doused the twin searchlights, and switched over to the audio
beams that served so well on the surface when blind flying was in
order. But here in the cavern world, thirty-seventh in the linked
series of vast caves that underlie the waterless wastes of Mars, the
reflected waves of sound were of little value. Distances were far too
cramped—disaster might loom but a few hundred feet away.
"Trapped us neatly," Rolf said through clenched teeth. "Tolled into
their underground hideout by that water-runner we tried to capture. We
can't escape, that's certain. They know these caverns better than....
We'll down some of them, though."
"Right!" That was old Garmon Nash, his fellow patrolman aboard the
Planet Patrol ship as he swung the deadly slimness of his rocket
blast's barrel around to center on the fiery jets that betrayed the
approaching outlaw flyers.
Three times he fired the gun, the rocket projectiles blasting off with
their invisible preliminary jets of gas, and three times an enemy craft
flared up into an intolerable torch of flame before they realized the
patrol ship had fired upon them. Then a barrage of enemy rocket shells
exploded into life above and before them.
Rolf swung the lax controls over hard as the bursts of fire revealed a
looming barrier of stone dead ahead, and then he felt the tough skin
of the flyer crumple inward. The cabin seemed to telescope about him.
In a slow sort of wonder Rolf felt the scrape of rock against metal,
and then the screeching of air through the myriad rents in the cabin's
meralloy walls grew to a mad whining wail.
Down plunged the battered ship, downward ever downward. Somehow Rolf
found the strength to wrap his fingers around the control levers and
snap on a quick burst from the landing rockets. Their mad speed checked
momentarily, but the nose of the vertically plunging ship dissolved
into an inferno of flame.
The ship struck; split open like a rotten squash, and Rolf felt himself
being flung far outward through thick blackness. For an eternity it
seemed he hung in the darkness before something smashed the breath and
feeling from his nerveless body. With a last glimmer of sanity he knew
that he lay crushed against a rocky wall.
Much later Rolf groaned with the pain of bruised muscles and tried to
rise. To his amazement he could move all his limbs. Carefully he came
to his knees and so to his feet. Not a bone was broken, unless the
sharp breathlessness that strained at his chest meant cracked ribs.
There was light in the narrow pit in which he found himself, light and
heat from the yet-glowing debris of the rocket flyer. The outlaws had
blasted the crashed ship, his practiced eyes told him, and Garmon Nash
must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a
deep crevice.
In the fading glow of the super-heated metal the vertical walls above
mocked him. There could be no ascent from this natural prison-pit, and
even if there were he could never hope to reach the surface forty miles
and more overhead. The floors of the thirty-seven caves through which
they had so carefully jetted were a splintered, creviced series of
canyon-like wastes, and as he ascended the rarefied atmosphere of the
higher levels would spell death.
Rolf laughed. Without a pressure mask on the surface of Mars an
Earthman was licked. Without water and food certain death grinned in
his face, for beyond the sand-buried entrance to these lost equatorial
caves there were no pressure domes for hundreds of miles. Here at
least the air was thick enough to support life, and somewhere nearby
the outlaws who smuggled their precious contraband water into the
water-starved domes of North Mars lay hidden.
The young patrolman unzippered his jacket pocket and felt for the
emergency concentrate bars that were standard equipment. Half of the
oval bar he crushed between his teeth, and when the concentrated energy
flooded into his muscles he set off around the irregular wall of the
pit.
He found the opening less than ten paces from the starting point, an
empty cavity higher than a man and half as wide. The glow from the
gutted ship was failing and he felt for the solar torch that hugged
flatly against his hip. He uncapped the torch and the miniature sun
glowed redly from its lensed prison to reveal the rocky corridor
stretching out ahead.
Light! How many hours later it was when the first faint glow of white
light reached his eyes Rolf did not know—it had seemed an eternity of
endless plodding along that smooth-floored descending tunnel.
Rolf capped the solar torch. No use wasting the captive energy
needlessly he reasoned. And he loosened the expoder in its holster as
he moved carefully forward. The outlaw headquarters might be close
ahead, headquarters where renegade Frogs, Venusians from the southern
sunken marshes of Mars, and Earthmen from dusty North Mars, concealed
their precious hoard of water from the thirsty colonists of North Mars.
"They may have found the sunken seas of Mars," thought Rolf as he moved
alertly forward, "water that would give the mining domes new life." His
fists clenched dryly. "Water that should be free!"
Then the light brightened before him as he rounded a shouldering wall
of smoothly trimmed stone, and the floor fell away beneath his feet!
He found himself shooting downward into a vast void that glowed softly
with a mysterious all-pervading radiance.
His eyes went searching out, out into undreamed distance. For miles
below him there was nothing but emptiness, and for miles before him
there was that same glowing vacancy. Above the cavern's roof soared
majestically upward; he could see the narrow dark slit through which
his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through
the vaulted rocky dome of this fantastic abyss.
It was then, even as he snapped the release of his spinner and the
nested blades spun free overhead, that he saw the slowly turning bulk
of the cloud-swathed world, a tiny five mile green ball of a planet!
The weird globe was divided equally into hemispheres, and as the tiny
world turned between its confining columns a green, lake-dotted half
alternated with a blasted, splintered black waste of rocky desert. As
the spinner dropped him slowly down into the vast emptiness of the
great shining gulf, Rolf could see that a broad band of stone divided
the green fertile plains and forests from the desolate desert wastes of
the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was
content to let it move in that direction—from the heights of the wall
he could scout out the country beyond.
The wall expanded as he came nearer to the pygmy planet. The spinner
had slowed its speed; it seemed to Rolf that he must be falling free
in space for a time, but the feeble gravity of the tiny world tugged
at him more strongly as he neared the wall. And the barrier became a
jumbled mass of roughly-dressed stone slabs, from whose earth-filled
crevices sprouted green life.
So slowly was the spinner dropping that the blackened desolation of the
other hemisphere came sliding up beneath his boots. He looked down into
great gashes in the blackness of the desert and saw there the green of
sunken oases and watered canyons. He drifted slowly toward the opposite
loom of the mysterious wall with a swift wind off the desert behind him.
A hundred yards from the base of the rocky wall his feet scraped
through black dust, and he came to a stop. Deftly Rolf nested the
spinners again in their pack before he set out toward the heaped-up
mass of stone blocks that was the wall.
Ten steps he took before an excited voice called out shrilly from the
rocks ahead. Rolf's slitted gray eyes narrowed yet more and his hand
dropped to the compact expoder machine-gun holstered at his hip. There
was the movement of a dark shape behind the screen of vines and ragged
bushes.
"Down, Altha," a deeper voice rumbled from above, "it's one of the
Enemy."
The voice had spoken in English! Rolf took a step forward eagerly and
then doubt made his feet falter. There were Earthmen as well as Frogs
among the outlaws. This mysterious world that floated above the cavern
floor might be their headquarters.
"But, Mark," the voice that was now unmistakably feminine argued, "he
wears the uniform of a patrolman."
"May be a trick." The deep voice was doubtful. "You know their leader,
Cannon, wanted you. This may be a trick to join the Outcasts and
kidnap you."
The girl's voice was merry. "Come on Spider-legs," she said.
Rolf found himself staring, open-mouthed, at the sleek-limbed vision
that parted the bushes and came toward him. A beautiful woman she was,
with the long burnished copper of her hair down around her waist, but
beneath the meager shortness of the skin tunic he saw that her firm
flesh was covered with a fine reddish coat of hair. Even her face was
sleek and gleaming with its coppery covering of down.
"Hello, patrol-a-man," she said shyly.
An elongated pencil-ray of a man bounced nervously out to her side.
"Altha," he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a
long-fingered hand, "why do you never listen to me? I promised your
father I'd look after you." He hitched at his tattered skin robe.
The girl laughed, a low liquid sound that made Rolf's heart pump
faster. "This Mark Tanner of mine," she explained to the patrolman,
"is always afraid for me. He does not remember that I can see into the
minds of others."
She smiled again as Rolf's face slowly reddened. "Do not be ashamed,"
she said. "I am not angry that you think I am—well, not too
unattractive."
Rolf threw up the mental block that was the inheritance from his
grueling years of training on Earth Base. His instructors there
had known that a few gifted mortals possess the power of a limited
telepathy, and the secrets of the Planet Patrol must be guarded.
"That is better, perhaps." The girl's face was demure. "And now perhaps
you will visit us in the safety of the vaults of ancient Aryk."
"Sorry," said the tall man as Rolf sprang easily from the ground to
their side. "I'm always forgetting the mind-reading abilities of the
Hairy People."
"She one of them?" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch.
"Mother was." Mark Tanner's voice was louder. "Father was Wayne Stark.
Famous explorer you know. I was his assistant."
"Sure." Rolf nodded. "Lost in equatorial wastelands—uh, about twenty
years ago—2053, I believe."
"Only we were not lost on the surface," explained Tanner, his booming
voice much too powerful for his reedy body, "Wayne Stark was searching
for the lost seas of Mars. Traced them underground. Found them too." He
paused to look nervously out across the blasted wasteland.
"We ran out of fuel here on Lomihi," he finished, "with the vanished
surface waters of Mars less than four miles beneath us."
Rolf followed the direction of the other's pale blue eyes. Overhead now
hung the bottom of the cavern. An almost circular island of pale yellow
lifted above the restless dark waters of a vast sea. Rolf realized with
a wrench of sudden fear that they actually hung head downward like
flies walking across a ceiling.
"There," roared Tanner's voice, "is one of the seas of Mars."
"One," repeated Rolf slowly. "You mean there are more?"
"Dozens of them," the older man's voice throbbed with helpless rage.
"Enough to make the face of Mars green again. Cavern after cavern lies
beyond this first one, their floors flooded with water."
Rolf felt new strength pump into his tired bruised muscles. Here lay
the salvation of Earth's thirsting colonies almost within reach. Once
he could lead the scientists of North Mars to this treasure trove of
water....
"Mark!" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve
and he dropped beside her in the shelter of a clump of coarse-leaved
gray bushes. "The Furry Women attack!"
A hundred paces away Rolf made the dark shapes of armed warriors as
they filed downward from the Barrier into the blackened desolation of
the desert half of Lomihi.
"Enemies?" he whispered to Mark Tanner hoarsely.
"Right." The older man was slipping the stout bowstring into its
notched recess on the upper end of his long bow. "They cross the
Barrier from the fertile plains of Nyd to raid the Hairy People. They
take them for slaves."
"I must warn them." Altha's lips thinned and her brown-flecked eyes
flamed.
"The outlaws may capture," warned Tanner. "They have taken over the
canyons of Gur and Norpar, remember."
"I will take the glider." Altha was on her feet, her body crouched
over to take advantage of the sheltering shrubs. She threaded her way
swiftly back along a rocky corridor in the face of the Barrier toward
the ruins of ancient Aryk.
Tanner shrugged his shoulders. "What can I do? Altha has the blood
of the Hairy People in her veins. She will warn them even though the
outlaws have turned her people against her."
Rolf watched the column of barbarically clad warriors file out upon the
barren desert and swing to the right along the base of the Barrier.
Spear tips and bared swords glinted dully.
"They will pass within a few feet!" he hissed.
"Right." Tanner's fingers bit into Rolf's arm. "Pray that the wind does
not shift, their nostrils are sensitive as those of the weasels they
resemble."
Rolf's eyes slitted. There was something vaguely unhuman about those
gracefully marching figures. He wondered what Tanner had meant by
calling them weasels, wondered until they came closer.
Then he knew. Above half naked feminine bodies, sinuous and supple
as the undulating coils of a serpent, rose the snaky ditigrade head
of a weasel-brute! Their necks were long and wide, merging into
the gray-furred muscles of their narrow bodies until they seemed
utterly shoulderless, and beneath their furry pelts the ripples of
smooth-flowing muscles played rhythmically. There was a stench, a musky
penetrating scent that made the flesh of his body crawl.
"See!" Tanner's voice was muted. "Giffa, Queen of the Furry Ones!"
Borne on a carved and polished litter of ebon-hued wood and yellowed
bone lolled the hideous queen of that advancing horde. Gaunt of body
she was, her scarred gray-furred hide hanging loose upon her breastless
frame. One eye was gone but the other gleamed, black and beady, from
her narrow earless skull. And the skulls of rodents and men alike
linked together into ghastly festoons about her heavy, short-legged
litter.
Men bore the litter, eight broad-shouldered red-haired men whose arms
had been cut off at the shoulders and whose naked backs bore the weals
of countless lashes. Their bodies, like that of Altha, were covered
with a silky coat of reddish hair.
Rolf raised his expoder, red anger clouding his eyes as he saw these
maimed beasts of burden, but the hand of Mark Tanner pressed down
firmly across his arm. The older man shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "When Altha has warned the Hairy People we can cut
off their retreat. After they have passed I will arouse the Outcasts
who live here upon the Barrier. Though their blood is that of the two
races mingled they hate the Furry Ones."
A shadow passed over their hiding place. The Furry Amazons too saw the
indistinct darkness and looked up. High overhead drifted the narrow
winged shape of a glider, and the warrior women shrieked their hatred.
Gone now was their chance for a surprise attack on the isolated canyons
of the Hairy People.
They halted, clustered about their leader. Giffa snarled quick orders
at them, her chisel-teeth clicking savagely. The column swung out into
the wasteland toward the nearest sunken valleys of the Hairy People.
Rolf and Mark Tanner came to their feet.
Abruptly, then, the wind veered. From behind the two Earthmen it came,
bearing the scent of their bodies out to the sensitive nostrils of the
beast-women. Again the column turned. They glimpsed the two men and a
hideous scrawling battle-cry burst from their throats.
Rolf's expoder rattled briefly like a high-speed sewing machine as he
flicked its muzzle back and forth along the ranks of attacking Furry
Ones. Dozens of the hideous weasel creatures fell as the needles of
explosive blasted them but hundreds more were swarming over their
fallen sisters. Mark Tanner's bow twanged again and again as he drove
arrows at the bloodthirsty warrior women. But the Furry Ones ran
fearlessly into that rain of death.
The expoder hammered in Rolf's heavy fist.
Tanner smashed an elbow into Rolf's side. "Retreat!" he gasped.
The Furry Amazons swarmed up over the lower terraces of rocks, their
snaky heads thrust forward and their swords slashing. The two Earthmen
bounded up and backward to the next jumbled layer of giant blocks
behind them, their powerful earthly muscles negating Lomihi's feeble
gravity. Spears showered thick about them and then they dropped behind
the sheltering bulk of a rough square boulder.
"Now where?" Rolf snapped another burst of expoder needles at the furry
attackers as he asked.
"To the vaults beneath the Forbidden City," Mark Tanner cried. "None
but the Outcasts and we two have entered the streets of deserted Aryk."
The bald scientist slung his bow over his head and one shoulder and
went bounding away along a shadowy crevice that plunged raggedly into
the heart of the Barrier. Rolf blasted another spurt of explosive
needles at the Furry Ones and followed.
Darkness thickened as they penetrated into the maze of the Barrier's
shattered heart. An unseen furry shape sprang upon Rolf's shoulders
and as he sank to his knees he felt hot saliva drip like acid upon his
neck. His fist sent the attacker's bulk smashing against the rocky
floor before fangs or claws could rip at his tender flesh, and he heard
a choked snarl that ended convulsively in silence.
Bat-winged blobs of life dragged wet leathery hide across his face, and
beneath his feet slimy wriggling things crushed into quivering pulp.
Then there was faint light again, and the high-vaulted roof of a rock
dungeon rose above him.
Mark Tanner was peering out a slitted embrasure that overlooked the
desolate land of the Hairy People.
Tanner's finger pointed. "Altha!" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the
glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. "She had warned the
Hairy People, and now she returns."
"The weasel heads won't follow us here?" asked Rolf.
Tanner laughed. "Hardly. They fear the spirits of the Ancients too much
for that. They believe the invisible powers will drink their souls."
"Then how about telling me about this hanging world?"
"Simply the whim of an ancient Martian ruler. As I have learned from
the inscriptions and metal tablets here in Aryk he could not conquer
all of Mars so he created a world that would be all his own."
Rolf laughed. "Like the pleasure globes of the wealthy on Earth."
"Right." Tanner kept his eyes on the enlarging winged shape of Altha's
flyer as he spoke. "Later, when the nations of Mars began draining off
the seas and hoarding them in their underground caverns, Lomihi became
a fortress for the few thousand aristocrats and slaves who escaped the
surface wars.
"The Hairy People were the rulers," he went on, "and the Furry Ones
were their slaves. In the revolt that eventually split Lomihi into two
warring races this city, Aryk, was destroyed by a strange vegetable
blight and the ancient knowledge was lost to both races."
"But," Rolf frowned thoughtfully, "what keeps Lomihi from crashing into
the island? Surely the two columns at either end cannot support it?"
"The island is the answer," said Tanner. "Somehow it blocks the force
of gravity—shields Lomihi from...." He caught his breath suddenly.
"The outlaws!" he cried. "They're after Altha."
Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail
wing. He saw the girl go gliding steeply down toward a ragged jumble
of volcanic spurs and pits and disappear from view. He turned to see
the old man pushing another crudely constructed glider toward the outer
wall of the rock chamber.
Tanner tugged at a silvery metal bar inset into the stone wall. A
section of the wall swung slowly inward. Rolf sprang to his side.
"Let me follow," he said. "I can fly a glider, and I have my expoder."
The older man's eyes were hot. He jerked at Rolf's hands and then
suddenly thought better of it. "You're right," he agreed. "Help her if
you can. Your weapon is our only hope now."
Rolf pushed up and outward with all the strength of his weary muscles.
The glider knifed forward with that first swift impetus, and drove out
over the Barrier. The Furry Ones were struggling insect shapes below
him, and he saw with a thrill that larger bodied warriors, whose bodies
glinted with a dull bronze, were attacking them from the burnt-out
wastelands. The Hairy People had come to battle the invaders.
He guided the frail wing toward the shattered badlands where the girl
had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed
near its center in a narrow strip of rocky gulch. A sudden thought made
him grin. He drove directly toward the grounded ship. With this rocket
flyer he could escape from Lomihi, return through the thirty-seven
caverns to the upper world, and give to thirsty Mars the gift of
limitless water again.
A man stood on guard just outside the flyer's oval door. Rolf lined up
his expoder and his jaw tensed. He guided the tiny soarer closer with
one hand. If he could crash the glider into the guard, well and good.
There would be no explosion of expoder needles to warn the fellow's
comrades. But if the outlaw saw him Rolf knew that he would be the
first to fire—his was the element of surprise.
A score of feet lay between them, and suddenly the outlaw whirled
about. Rolf pressed the firing button; the expoder clicked over once
and the trimmer key jammed, and the doughy-faced Venusian swung up his
own long-barreled expoder!
Rolf snapped his weapon overhand at the Frog's hairless skull. The
fish-bellied alien ducked but his expoder swung off the target
momentarily. In that instant Rolf launched himself from the open
framework of the slowly diving glider, full upon the Venusian.
They went down, Rolf swinging his fist like a hammer. He felt the Frog
go limp and he loosed a relieved whistle. Now with a rocket flyer and
the guard's rifle expoder in his grasp the problem of escape from
the inner caverns was solved. He would rescue the girl, stop at the
Forbidden City for Mark Tanner, and blast off for the upper crust forty
miles and more overhead.
He knelt over the prostrate Venusian, using his belt and a strip torn
from his greenish tunic to bind the unconscious man. The knots were
not too tight, the man could free himself in the course of a few hours.
He shrugged his shoulders wearily and started to get up.
A foot scraped on stone behind him. He spun on bent knees and flung
himself fifty feet to the further side of the narrow gulch with the
same movement. Expoder needles splintered the rocks about him as he
dropped behind a sheltering rocky ledge, and he caught a glimpse of two
green-clad men dragging the bronze-haired body of the girl he had come
to save into the shelter of the flyer.
A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his
captured weapon's firing button. A roar of pain came from the wounded
man, and he saw an outflung arm upon the rocky ground that clenched
tightly twice and relaxed to move no more. The outlaw weapon must have
been loaded with a drum of poisoned needles, the expoder needles had
not blasted a vital spot in the man's body.
The odds were evening, he thought triumphantly. There might be another
outlaw somewhere out there in the badlands, but no more than that. The
flyer was built to accommodate no more than five passengers and four
was the usual number. He shifted his expoder to cover the opposite end
of the ship's squatty fuselage.
And something that felt like a mountain smashed into his back. He was
crushed downward, breathless, his eyes glimpsing briefly the soiled
greenish trousers of his attacker as they locked on either side of
his neck, and then blackness engulfed him as a mighty sledge battered
endlessly at his skull.
This sledge was hammering relentlessly as Rolf sensed his first
glimmer of returning light. There were two sledges, one of them that
he identified as the hammering of blood in his throbbing temples, and
the other the measured blasting pulse of rocket jets. He opened his
eyes slowly to find himself staring at the fine-crusted metal plates
of a flyer's deck. His nose was grinding into the oily muck that only
undisciplined men would have permitted to accumulate.
Cautiously his head twisted until he could look forward toward the
controls. The bound body of Altha Stark faced him, and he saw her lips
twist into a brief smile of recognition. She shook her head and frowned
as he moved his arm. But Rolf had learned that his limbs were not
bound—apparently the outlaws had considered him out of the blasting
for the moment.
By degrees Rolf worked his arm down to his belt where his solar torch
was hooked. His fingers made careful adjustments within the inset base
of the torch, pushing a lever here and adjusting a tension screw there.
The ship bumped gently as it landed and the thrum of rockets ceased.
The cabin shifted with the weight of bodies moving from their seats.
Rolf heard voices from a distance and the answering triumphant bawling
of his two captors. The moment had come. He turned the cap of the solar
torch away from his body and freed it.
Heat blasted at his body as the stepped-up output of the torch made the
oily floor flame. He lay unmoving while the thick smoke rolled over him.
"Fire!" There was panic in the outlaw's voice. Rolf came to his knees
in the blanketing fog and looked forward.
One of the men flung himself out the door, but the other reached
for the extinguisher close at hand. His thoughts were on the oily
smoke; not on the prisoners, and so the impact of Rolf's horizontally
propelled body drove the breath from his lungs before his hand could
drop to his belted expoder.
The outlaw was game. His fists slammed back at Rolf, and his knees
jolted upward toward the patrolman's vulnerable middle. But Rolf
bored in, his own knotted hands pumping, and his trained body weaving
instinctively aside from the crippling blows aimed at his body. For a
moment they fought, coughing and choking from the thickening pall of
smoke, and then the fingers of the outlaw clamped around Rolf's throat
and squeezed hard.
The patrolman was weary; the wreck in the upper cavern and the long
trek afterward through the dark tunnels had sapped his strength, and
now he felt victory slipping from his grasp.
He felt something soft bump against his legs, legs so far below that he
could hardly realize that they were his, and then he was falling with
the relentless fingers still about his throat. As from a great distant
he heard a cry of pain and the blessed air gulped into his raw throat.
His eyes cleared.
He saw Altha's bound body and head. Her jaws were clamped upon the
arm of the outlaw and even as he fought for more of the reeking smoky
air of the cabin he saw the man's clenched fist batter at her face.
Rolf swung, all the weight of his stocky body behind the blow, and the
outlaw thudded limply against the opposite wall of the little cabin.
No time to ask the girl if she were injured. The patrolman flung
himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship
rocketing skyward. Behind him the thin film of surface oil no longer
burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air.
"Patrolman," the girl's voice was beside him. "We're safe!"
"Everything bongo?" Rolf wanted to know.
"Of course," she smiled crookedly.
"Glad of that." Rolf felt the warmth of her body so close beside him. A
sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact.
Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. "Do you know," she said, "even
yet I do not know your name."
Rolf grinned up at her. "Need to?" he asked.
The girl's eyes widened. A responsive spark blazed in them. "Handier
than calling you
Shorty
all the time," she quipped.
Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten
Furry Ones racing back across the great wall toward the Plains of
Nyd. He nosed the captured ship down toward the ruined plaza of
the Forbidden City. Once Mark Tanner was aboard they would blast
surfaceward with their thrilling news that all Mars could have water in
plenty again.
Rolf snorted. "Shorty," he said disgustedly as they landed, but his arm
went out toward the girl's red-haired slimness, and curved around it. | What is the relationship between the Hairy people and the Furry people?
(A) The Furry people hunt the Hairy, because they were once enslaved by them.
(B) The Hairy people rule over the Furry, and they are rebelling against them.
(C) The two factions have disputes over the land
(D) The Furry people have a disdain for the Hairy, and frequently attack them.
| {
"answer_start": [
78
],
"text": [
"The Furry people hunt the Hairy, because they were once enslaved by them."
]
} |
|
63398_X7DLF0GV_3 | 63398_X7DLF0GV_3_0 | THE HAIRY ONES
by BASIL WELLS
Marooned on a world within a world, aided
by a slim girl and an old warrior, Patrolman
Sisko Rolf was fighting his greatest
battle—to bring life to dying Mars.
"The outlaw ships are attacking!" Old Garmon Nash's harsh voice snapped
like a thunderclap in the cramped rocket flyer's cabin. "Five or six of
them. Cut the searchlights!"
Sisko Rolf's stocky body was a blur of motion as he cut the rocket
jets, doused the twin searchlights, and switched over to the audio
beams that served so well on the surface when blind flying was in
order. But here in the cavern world, thirty-seventh in the linked
series of vast caves that underlie the waterless wastes of Mars, the
reflected waves of sound were of little value. Distances were far too
cramped—disaster might loom but a few hundred feet away.
"Trapped us neatly," Rolf said through clenched teeth. "Tolled into
their underground hideout by that water-runner we tried to capture. We
can't escape, that's certain. They know these caverns better than....
We'll down some of them, though."
"Right!" That was old Garmon Nash, his fellow patrolman aboard the
Planet Patrol ship as he swung the deadly slimness of his rocket
blast's barrel around to center on the fiery jets that betrayed the
approaching outlaw flyers.
Three times he fired the gun, the rocket projectiles blasting off with
their invisible preliminary jets of gas, and three times an enemy craft
flared up into an intolerable torch of flame before they realized the
patrol ship had fired upon them. Then a barrage of enemy rocket shells
exploded into life above and before them.
Rolf swung the lax controls over hard as the bursts of fire revealed a
looming barrier of stone dead ahead, and then he felt the tough skin
of the flyer crumple inward. The cabin seemed to telescope about him.
In a slow sort of wonder Rolf felt the scrape of rock against metal,
and then the screeching of air through the myriad rents in the cabin's
meralloy walls grew to a mad whining wail.
Down plunged the battered ship, downward ever downward. Somehow Rolf
found the strength to wrap his fingers around the control levers and
snap on a quick burst from the landing rockets. Their mad speed checked
momentarily, but the nose of the vertically plunging ship dissolved
into an inferno of flame.
The ship struck; split open like a rotten squash, and Rolf felt himself
being flung far outward through thick blackness. For an eternity it
seemed he hung in the darkness before something smashed the breath and
feeling from his nerveless body. With a last glimmer of sanity he knew
that he lay crushed against a rocky wall.
Much later Rolf groaned with the pain of bruised muscles and tried to
rise. To his amazement he could move all his limbs. Carefully he came
to his knees and so to his feet. Not a bone was broken, unless the
sharp breathlessness that strained at his chest meant cracked ribs.
There was light in the narrow pit in which he found himself, light and
heat from the yet-glowing debris of the rocket flyer. The outlaws had
blasted the crashed ship, his practiced eyes told him, and Garmon Nash
must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a
deep crevice.
In the fading glow of the super-heated metal the vertical walls above
mocked him. There could be no ascent from this natural prison-pit, and
even if there were he could never hope to reach the surface forty miles
and more overhead. The floors of the thirty-seven caves through which
they had so carefully jetted were a splintered, creviced series of
canyon-like wastes, and as he ascended the rarefied atmosphere of the
higher levels would spell death.
Rolf laughed. Without a pressure mask on the surface of Mars an
Earthman was licked. Without water and food certain death grinned in
his face, for beyond the sand-buried entrance to these lost equatorial
caves there were no pressure domes for hundreds of miles. Here at
least the air was thick enough to support life, and somewhere nearby
the outlaws who smuggled their precious contraband water into the
water-starved domes of North Mars lay hidden.
The young patrolman unzippered his jacket pocket and felt for the
emergency concentrate bars that were standard equipment. Half of the
oval bar he crushed between his teeth, and when the concentrated energy
flooded into his muscles he set off around the irregular wall of the
pit.
He found the opening less than ten paces from the starting point, an
empty cavity higher than a man and half as wide. The glow from the
gutted ship was failing and he felt for the solar torch that hugged
flatly against his hip. He uncapped the torch and the miniature sun
glowed redly from its lensed prison to reveal the rocky corridor
stretching out ahead.
Light! How many hours later it was when the first faint glow of white
light reached his eyes Rolf did not know—it had seemed an eternity of
endless plodding along that smooth-floored descending tunnel.
Rolf capped the solar torch. No use wasting the captive energy
needlessly he reasoned. And he loosened the expoder in its holster as
he moved carefully forward. The outlaw headquarters might be close
ahead, headquarters where renegade Frogs, Venusians from the southern
sunken marshes of Mars, and Earthmen from dusty North Mars, concealed
their precious hoard of water from the thirsty colonists of North Mars.
"They may have found the sunken seas of Mars," thought Rolf as he moved
alertly forward, "water that would give the mining domes new life." His
fists clenched dryly. "Water that should be free!"
Then the light brightened before him as he rounded a shouldering wall
of smoothly trimmed stone, and the floor fell away beneath his feet!
He found himself shooting downward into a vast void that glowed softly
with a mysterious all-pervading radiance.
His eyes went searching out, out into undreamed distance. For miles
below him there was nothing but emptiness, and for miles before him
there was that same glowing vacancy. Above the cavern's roof soared
majestically upward; he could see the narrow dark slit through which
his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through
the vaulted rocky dome of this fantastic abyss.
It was then, even as he snapped the release of his spinner and the
nested blades spun free overhead, that he saw the slowly turning bulk
of the cloud-swathed world, a tiny five mile green ball of a planet!
The weird globe was divided equally into hemispheres, and as the tiny
world turned between its confining columns a green, lake-dotted half
alternated with a blasted, splintered black waste of rocky desert. As
the spinner dropped him slowly down into the vast emptiness of the
great shining gulf, Rolf could see that a broad band of stone divided
the green fertile plains and forests from the desolate desert wastes of
the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was
content to let it move in that direction—from the heights of the wall
he could scout out the country beyond.
The wall expanded as he came nearer to the pygmy planet. The spinner
had slowed its speed; it seemed to Rolf that he must be falling free
in space for a time, but the feeble gravity of the tiny world tugged
at him more strongly as he neared the wall. And the barrier became a
jumbled mass of roughly-dressed stone slabs, from whose earth-filled
crevices sprouted green life.
So slowly was the spinner dropping that the blackened desolation of the
other hemisphere came sliding up beneath his boots. He looked down into
great gashes in the blackness of the desert and saw there the green of
sunken oases and watered canyons. He drifted slowly toward the opposite
loom of the mysterious wall with a swift wind off the desert behind him.
A hundred yards from the base of the rocky wall his feet scraped
through black dust, and he came to a stop. Deftly Rolf nested the
spinners again in their pack before he set out toward the heaped-up
mass of stone blocks that was the wall.
Ten steps he took before an excited voice called out shrilly from the
rocks ahead. Rolf's slitted gray eyes narrowed yet more and his hand
dropped to the compact expoder machine-gun holstered at his hip. There
was the movement of a dark shape behind the screen of vines and ragged
bushes.
"Down, Altha," a deeper voice rumbled from above, "it's one of the
Enemy."
The voice had spoken in English! Rolf took a step forward eagerly and
then doubt made his feet falter. There were Earthmen as well as Frogs
among the outlaws. This mysterious world that floated above the cavern
floor might be their headquarters.
"But, Mark," the voice that was now unmistakably feminine argued, "he
wears the uniform of a patrolman."
"May be a trick." The deep voice was doubtful. "You know their leader,
Cannon, wanted you. This may be a trick to join the Outcasts and
kidnap you."
The girl's voice was merry. "Come on Spider-legs," she said.
Rolf found himself staring, open-mouthed, at the sleek-limbed vision
that parted the bushes and came toward him. A beautiful woman she was,
with the long burnished copper of her hair down around her waist, but
beneath the meager shortness of the skin tunic he saw that her firm
flesh was covered with a fine reddish coat of hair. Even her face was
sleek and gleaming with its coppery covering of down.
"Hello, patrol-a-man," she said shyly.
An elongated pencil-ray of a man bounced nervously out to her side.
"Altha," he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a
long-fingered hand, "why do you never listen to me? I promised your
father I'd look after you." He hitched at his tattered skin robe.
The girl laughed, a low liquid sound that made Rolf's heart pump
faster. "This Mark Tanner of mine," she explained to the patrolman,
"is always afraid for me. He does not remember that I can see into the
minds of others."
She smiled again as Rolf's face slowly reddened. "Do not be ashamed,"
she said. "I am not angry that you think I am—well, not too
unattractive."
Rolf threw up the mental block that was the inheritance from his
grueling years of training on Earth Base. His instructors there
had known that a few gifted mortals possess the power of a limited
telepathy, and the secrets of the Planet Patrol must be guarded.
"That is better, perhaps." The girl's face was demure. "And now perhaps
you will visit us in the safety of the vaults of ancient Aryk."
"Sorry," said the tall man as Rolf sprang easily from the ground to
their side. "I'm always forgetting the mind-reading abilities of the
Hairy People."
"She one of them?" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch.
"Mother was." Mark Tanner's voice was louder. "Father was Wayne Stark.
Famous explorer you know. I was his assistant."
"Sure." Rolf nodded. "Lost in equatorial wastelands—uh, about twenty
years ago—2053, I believe."
"Only we were not lost on the surface," explained Tanner, his booming
voice much too powerful for his reedy body, "Wayne Stark was searching
for the lost seas of Mars. Traced them underground. Found them too." He
paused to look nervously out across the blasted wasteland.
"We ran out of fuel here on Lomihi," he finished, "with the vanished
surface waters of Mars less than four miles beneath us."
Rolf followed the direction of the other's pale blue eyes. Overhead now
hung the bottom of the cavern. An almost circular island of pale yellow
lifted above the restless dark waters of a vast sea. Rolf realized with
a wrench of sudden fear that they actually hung head downward like
flies walking across a ceiling.
"There," roared Tanner's voice, "is one of the seas of Mars."
"One," repeated Rolf slowly. "You mean there are more?"
"Dozens of them," the older man's voice throbbed with helpless rage.
"Enough to make the face of Mars green again. Cavern after cavern lies
beyond this first one, their floors flooded with water."
Rolf felt new strength pump into his tired bruised muscles. Here lay
the salvation of Earth's thirsting colonies almost within reach. Once
he could lead the scientists of North Mars to this treasure trove of
water....
"Mark!" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve
and he dropped beside her in the shelter of a clump of coarse-leaved
gray bushes. "The Furry Women attack!"
A hundred paces away Rolf made the dark shapes of armed warriors as
they filed downward from the Barrier into the blackened desolation of
the desert half of Lomihi.
"Enemies?" he whispered to Mark Tanner hoarsely.
"Right." The older man was slipping the stout bowstring into its
notched recess on the upper end of his long bow. "They cross the
Barrier from the fertile plains of Nyd to raid the Hairy People. They
take them for slaves."
"I must warn them." Altha's lips thinned and her brown-flecked eyes
flamed.
"The outlaws may capture," warned Tanner. "They have taken over the
canyons of Gur and Norpar, remember."
"I will take the glider." Altha was on her feet, her body crouched
over to take advantage of the sheltering shrubs. She threaded her way
swiftly back along a rocky corridor in the face of the Barrier toward
the ruins of ancient Aryk.
Tanner shrugged his shoulders. "What can I do? Altha has the blood
of the Hairy People in her veins. She will warn them even though the
outlaws have turned her people against her."
Rolf watched the column of barbarically clad warriors file out upon the
barren desert and swing to the right along the base of the Barrier.
Spear tips and bared swords glinted dully.
"They will pass within a few feet!" he hissed.
"Right." Tanner's fingers bit into Rolf's arm. "Pray that the wind does
not shift, their nostrils are sensitive as those of the weasels they
resemble."
Rolf's eyes slitted. There was something vaguely unhuman about those
gracefully marching figures. He wondered what Tanner had meant by
calling them weasels, wondered until they came closer.
Then he knew. Above half naked feminine bodies, sinuous and supple
as the undulating coils of a serpent, rose the snaky ditigrade head
of a weasel-brute! Their necks were long and wide, merging into
the gray-furred muscles of their narrow bodies until they seemed
utterly shoulderless, and beneath their furry pelts the ripples of
smooth-flowing muscles played rhythmically. There was a stench, a musky
penetrating scent that made the flesh of his body crawl.
"See!" Tanner's voice was muted. "Giffa, Queen of the Furry Ones!"
Borne on a carved and polished litter of ebon-hued wood and yellowed
bone lolled the hideous queen of that advancing horde. Gaunt of body
she was, her scarred gray-furred hide hanging loose upon her breastless
frame. One eye was gone but the other gleamed, black and beady, from
her narrow earless skull. And the skulls of rodents and men alike
linked together into ghastly festoons about her heavy, short-legged
litter.
Men bore the litter, eight broad-shouldered red-haired men whose arms
had been cut off at the shoulders and whose naked backs bore the weals
of countless lashes. Their bodies, like that of Altha, were covered
with a silky coat of reddish hair.
Rolf raised his expoder, red anger clouding his eyes as he saw these
maimed beasts of burden, but the hand of Mark Tanner pressed down
firmly across his arm. The older man shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "When Altha has warned the Hairy People we can cut
off their retreat. After they have passed I will arouse the Outcasts
who live here upon the Barrier. Though their blood is that of the two
races mingled they hate the Furry Ones."
A shadow passed over their hiding place. The Furry Amazons too saw the
indistinct darkness and looked up. High overhead drifted the narrow
winged shape of a glider, and the warrior women shrieked their hatred.
Gone now was their chance for a surprise attack on the isolated canyons
of the Hairy People.
They halted, clustered about their leader. Giffa snarled quick orders
at them, her chisel-teeth clicking savagely. The column swung out into
the wasteland toward the nearest sunken valleys of the Hairy People.
Rolf and Mark Tanner came to their feet.
Abruptly, then, the wind veered. From behind the two Earthmen it came,
bearing the scent of their bodies out to the sensitive nostrils of the
beast-women. Again the column turned. They glimpsed the two men and a
hideous scrawling battle-cry burst from their throats.
Rolf's expoder rattled briefly like a high-speed sewing machine as he
flicked its muzzle back and forth along the ranks of attacking Furry
Ones. Dozens of the hideous weasel creatures fell as the needles of
explosive blasted them but hundreds more were swarming over their
fallen sisters. Mark Tanner's bow twanged again and again as he drove
arrows at the bloodthirsty warrior women. But the Furry Ones ran
fearlessly into that rain of death.
The expoder hammered in Rolf's heavy fist.
Tanner smashed an elbow into Rolf's side. "Retreat!" he gasped.
The Furry Amazons swarmed up over the lower terraces of rocks, their
snaky heads thrust forward and their swords slashing. The two Earthmen
bounded up and backward to the next jumbled layer of giant blocks
behind them, their powerful earthly muscles negating Lomihi's feeble
gravity. Spears showered thick about them and then they dropped behind
the sheltering bulk of a rough square boulder.
"Now where?" Rolf snapped another burst of expoder needles at the furry
attackers as he asked.
"To the vaults beneath the Forbidden City," Mark Tanner cried. "None
but the Outcasts and we two have entered the streets of deserted Aryk."
The bald scientist slung his bow over his head and one shoulder and
went bounding away along a shadowy crevice that plunged raggedly into
the heart of the Barrier. Rolf blasted another spurt of explosive
needles at the Furry Ones and followed.
Darkness thickened as they penetrated into the maze of the Barrier's
shattered heart. An unseen furry shape sprang upon Rolf's shoulders
and as he sank to his knees he felt hot saliva drip like acid upon his
neck. His fist sent the attacker's bulk smashing against the rocky
floor before fangs or claws could rip at his tender flesh, and he heard
a choked snarl that ended convulsively in silence.
Bat-winged blobs of life dragged wet leathery hide across his face, and
beneath his feet slimy wriggling things crushed into quivering pulp.
Then there was faint light again, and the high-vaulted roof of a rock
dungeon rose above him.
Mark Tanner was peering out a slitted embrasure that overlooked the
desolate land of the Hairy People.
Tanner's finger pointed. "Altha!" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the
glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. "She had warned the
Hairy People, and now she returns."
"The weasel heads won't follow us here?" asked Rolf.
Tanner laughed. "Hardly. They fear the spirits of the Ancients too much
for that. They believe the invisible powers will drink their souls."
"Then how about telling me about this hanging world?"
"Simply the whim of an ancient Martian ruler. As I have learned from
the inscriptions and metal tablets here in Aryk he could not conquer
all of Mars so he created a world that would be all his own."
Rolf laughed. "Like the pleasure globes of the wealthy on Earth."
"Right." Tanner kept his eyes on the enlarging winged shape of Altha's
flyer as he spoke. "Later, when the nations of Mars began draining off
the seas and hoarding them in their underground caverns, Lomihi became
a fortress for the few thousand aristocrats and slaves who escaped the
surface wars.
"The Hairy People were the rulers," he went on, "and the Furry Ones
were their slaves. In the revolt that eventually split Lomihi into two
warring races this city, Aryk, was destroyed by a strange vegetable
blight and the ancient knowledge was lost to both races."
"But," Rolf frowned thoughtfully, "what keeps Lomihi from crashing into
the island? Surely the two columns at either end cannot support it?"
"The island is the answer," said Tanner. "Somehow it blocks the force
of gravity—shields Lomihi from...." He caught his breath suddenly.
"The outlaws!" he cried. "They're after Altha."
Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail
wing. He saw the girl go gliding steeply down toward a ragged jumble
of volcanic spurs and pits and disappear from view. He turned to see
the old man pushing another crudely constructed glider toward the outer
wall of the rock chamber.
Tanner tugged at a silvery metal bar inset into the stone wall. A
section of the wall swung slowly inward. Rolf sprang to his side.
"Let me follow," he said. "I can fly a glider, and I have my expoder."
The older man's eyes were hot. He jerked at Rolf's hands and then
suddenly thought better of it. "You're right," he agreed. "Help her if
you can. Your weapon is our only hope now."
Rolf pushed up and outward with all the strength of his weary muscles.
The glider knifed forward with that first swift impetus, and drove out
over the Barrier. The Furry Ones were struggling insect shapes below
him, and he saw with a thrill that larger bodied warriors, whose bodies
glinted with a dull bronze, were attacking them from the burnt-out
wastelands. The Hairy People had come to battle the invaders.
He guided the frail wing toward the shattered badlands where the girl
had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed
near its center in a narrow strip of rocky gulch. A sudden thought made
him grin. He drove directly toward the grounded ship. With this rocket
flyer he could escape from Lomihi, return through the thirty-seven
caverns to the upper world, and give to thirsty Mars the gift of
limitless water again.
A man stood on guard just outside the flyer's oval door. Rolf lined up
his expoder and his jaw tensed. He guided the tiny soarer closer with
one hand. If he could crash the glider into the guard, well and good.
There would be no explosion of expoder needles to warn the fellow's
comrades. But if the outlaw saw him Rolf knew that he would be the
first to fire—his was the element of surprise.
A score of feet lay between them, and suddenly the outlaw whirled
about. Rolf pressed the firing button; the expoder clicked over once
and the trimmer key jammed, and the doughy-faced Venusian swung up his
own long-barreled expoder!
Rolf snapped his weapon overhand at the Frog's hairless skull. The
fish-bellied alien ducked but his expoder swung off the target
momentarily. In that instant Rolf launched himself from the open
framework of the slowly diving glider, full upon the Venusian.
They went down, Rolf swinging his fist like a hammer. He felt the Frog
go limp and he loosed a relieved whistle. Now with a rocket flyer and
the guard's rifle expoder in his grasp the problem of escape from
the inner caverns was solved. He would rescue the girl, stop at the
Forbidden City for Mark Tanner, and blast off for the upper crust forty
miles and more overhead.
He knelt over the prostrate Venusian, using his belt and a strip torn
from his greenish tunic to bind the unconscious man. The knots were
not too tight, the man could free himself in the course of a few hours.
He shrugged his shoulders wearily and started to get up.
A foot scraped on stone behind him. He spun on bent knees and flung
himself fifty feet to the further side of the narrow gulch with the
same movement. Expoder needles splintered the rocks about him as he
dropped behind a sheltering rocky ledge, and he caught a glimpse of two
green-clad men dragging the bronze-haired body of the girl he had come
to save into the shelter of the flyer.
A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his
captured weapon's firing button. A roar of pain came from the wounded
man, and he saw an outflung arm upon the rocky ground that clenched
tightly twice and relaxed to move no more. The outlaw weapon must have
been loaded with a drum of poisoned needles, the expoder needles had
not blasted a vital spot in the man's body.
The odds were evening, he thought triumphantly. There might be another
outlaw somewhere out there in the badlands, but no more than that. The
flyer was built to accommodate no more than five passengers and four
was the usual number. He shifted his expoder to cover the opposite end
of the ship's squatty fuselage.
And something that felt like a mountain smashed into his back. He was
crushed downward, breathless, his eyes glimpsing briefly the soiled
greenish trousers of his attacker as they locked on either side of
his neck, and then blackness engulfed him as a mighty sledge battered
endlessly at his skull.
This sledge was hammering relentlessly as Rolf sensed his first
glimmer of returning light. There were two sledges, one of them that
he identified as the hammering of blood in his throbbing temples, and
the other the measured blasting pulse of rocket jets. He opened his
eyes slowly to find himself staring at the fine-crusted metal plates
of a flyer's deck. His nose was grinding into the oily muck that only
undisciplined men would have permitted to accumulate.
Cautiously his head twisted until he could look forward toward the
controls. The bound body of Altha Stark faced him, and he saw her lips
twist into a brief smile of recognition. She shook her head and frowned
as he moved his arm. But Rolf had learned that his limbs were not
bound—apparently the outlaws had considered him out of the blasting
for the moment.
By degrees Rolf worked his arm down to his belt where his solar torch
was hooked. His fingers made careful adjustments within the inset base
of the torch, pushing a lever here and adjusting a tension screw there.
The ship bumped gently as it landed and the thrum of rockets ceased.
The cabin shifted with the weight of bodies moving from their seats.
Rolf heard voices from a distance and the answering triumphant bawling
of his two captors. The moment had come. He turned the cap of the solar
torch away from his body and freed it.
Heat blasted at his body as the stepped-up output of the torch made the
oily floor flame. He lay unmoving while the thick smoke rolled over him.
"Fire!" There was panic in the outlaw's voice. Rolf came to his knees
in the blanketing fog and looked forward.
One of the men flung himself out the door, but the other reached
for the extinguisher close at hand. His thoughts were on the oily
smoke; not on the prisoners, and so the impact of Rolf's horizontally
propelled body drove the breath from his lungs before his hand could
drop to his belted expoder.
The outlaw was game. His fists slammed back at Rolf, and his knees
jolted upward toward the patrolman's vulnerable middle. But Rolf
bored in, his own knotted hands pumping, and his trained body weaving
instinctively aside from the crippling blows aimed at his body. For a
moment they fought, coughing and choking from the thickening pall of
smoke, and then the fingers of the outlaw clamped around Rolf's throat
and squeezed hard.
The patrolman was weary; the wreck in the upper cavern and the long
trek afterward through the dark tunnels had sapped his strength, and
now he felt victory slipping from his grasp.
He felt something soft bump against his legs, legs so far below that he
could hardly realize that they were his, and then he was falling with
the relentless fingers still about his throat. As from a great distant
he heard a cry of pain and the blessed air gulped into his raw throat.
His eyes cleared.
He saw Altha's bound body and head. Her jaws were clamped upon the
arm of the outlaw and even as he fought for more of the reeking smoky
air of the cabin he saw the man's clenched fist batter at her face.
Rolf swung, all the weight of his stocky body behind the blow, and the
outlaw thudded limply against the opposite wall of the little cabin.
No time to ask the girl if she were injured. The patrolman flung
himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship
rocketing skyward. Behind him the thin film of surface oil no longer
burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air.
"Patrolman," the girl's voice was beside him. "We're safe!"
"Everything bongo?" Rolf wanted to know.
"Of course," she smiled crookedly.
"Glad of that." Rolf felt the warmth of her body so close beside him. A
sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact.
Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. "Do you know," she said, "even
yet I do not know your name."
Rolf grinned up at her. "Need to?" he asked.
The girl's eyes widened. A responsive spark blazed in them. "Handier
than calling you
Shorty
all the time," she quipped.
Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten
Furry Ones racing back across the great wall toward the Plains of
Nyd. He nosed the captured ship down toward the ruined plaza of
the Forbidden City. Once Mark Tanner was aboard they would blast
surfaceward with their thrilling news that all Mars could have water in
plenty again.
Rolf snorted. "Shorty," he said disgustedly as they landed, but his arm
went out toward the girl's red-haired slimness, and curved around it. | Why is Rolf's weapon so valuable in the fights with the Furry?
(A) The Hairy people need all the extra weaponry against the Furry.
(B) He's able to catch the Furry off guard with his expoder.
(C) It's much more technologically advanced than theirs.
(D) He's a skilled marksman and able to hit many targets at once.
| {
"answer_start": [
202
],
"text": [
"It's much more technologically advanced than theirs."
]
} |
|
63398_X7DLF0GV_4 | 63398_X7DLF0GV_4_0 | THE HAIRY ONES
by BASIL WELLS
Marooned on a world within a world, aided
by a slim girl and an old warrior, Patrolman
Sisko Rolf was fighting his greatest
battle—to bring life to dying Mars.
"The outlaw ships are attacking!" Old Garmon Nash's harsh voice snapped
like a thunderclap in the cramped rocket flyer's cabin. "Five or six of
them. Cut the searchlights!"
Sisko Rolf's stocky body was a blur of motion as he cut the rocket
jets, doused the twin searchlights, and switched over to the audio
beams that served so well on the surface when blind flying was in
order. But here in the cavern world, thirty-seventh in the linked
series of vast caves that underlie the waterless wastes of Mars, the
reflected waves of sound were of little value. Distances were far too
cramped—disaster might loom but a few hundred feet away.
"Trapped us neatly," Rolf said through clenched teeth. "Tolled into
their underground hideout by that water-runner we tried to capture. We
can't escape, that's certain. They know these caverns better than....
We'll down some of them, though."
"Right!" That was old Garmon Nash, his fellow patrolman aboard the
Planet Patrol ship as he swung the deadly slimness of his rocket
blast's barrel around to center on the fiery jets that betrayed the
approaching outlaw flyers.
Three times he fired the gun, the rocket projectiles blasting off with
their invisible preliminary jets of gas, and three times an enemy craft
flared up into an intolerable torch of flame before they realized the
patrol ship had fired upon them. Then a barrage of enemy rocket shells
exploded into life above and before them.
Rolf swung the lax controls over hard as the bursts of fire revealed a
looming barrier of stone dead ahead, and then he felt the tough skin
of the flyer crumple inward. The cabin seemed to telescope about him.
In a slow sort of wonder Rolf felt the scrape of rock against metal,
and then the screeching of air through the myriad rents in the cabin's
meralloy walls grew to a mad whining wail.
Down plunged the battered ship, downward ever downward. Somehow Rolf
found the strength to wrap his fingers around the control levers and
snap on a quick burst from the landing rockets. Their mad speed checked
momentarily, but the nose of the vertically plunging ship dissolved
into an inferno of flame.
The ship struck; split open like a rotten squash, and Rolf felt himself
being flung far outward through thick blackness. For an eternity it
seemed he hung in the darkness before something smashed the breath and
feeling from his nerveless body. With a last glimmer of sanity he knew
that he lay crushed against a rocky wall.
Much later Rolf groaned with the pain of bruised muscles and tried to
rise. To his amazement he could move all his limbs. Carefully he came
to his knees and so to his feet. Not a bone was broken, unless the
sharp breathlessness that strained at his chest meant cracked ribs.
There was light in the narrow pit in which he found himself, light and
heat from the yet-glowing debris of the rocket flyer. The outlaws had
blasted the crashed ship, his practiced eyes told him, and Garmon Nash
must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a
deep crevice.
In the fading glow of the super-heated metal the vertical walls above
mocked him. There could be no ascent from this natural prison-pit, and
even if there were he could never hope to reach the surface forty miles
and more overhead. The floors of the thirty-seven caves through which
they had so carefully jetted were a splintered, creviced series of
canyon-like wastes, and as he ascended the rarefied atmosphere of the
higher levels would spell death.
Rolf laughed. Without a pressure mask on the surface of Mars an
Earthman was licked. Without water and food certain death grinned in
his face, for beyond the sand-buried entrance to these lost equatorial
caves there were no pressure domes for hundreds of miles. Here at
least the air was thick enough to support life, and somewhere nearby
the outlaws who smuggled their precious contraband water into the
water-starved domes of North Mars lay hidden.
The young patrolman unzippered his jacket pocket and felt for the
emergency concentrate bars that were standard equipment. Half of the
oval bar he crushed between his teeth, and when the concentrated energy
flooded into his muscles he set off around the irregular wall of the
pit.
He found the opening less than ten paces from the starting point, an
empty cavity higher than a man and half as wide. The glow from the
gutted ship was failing and he felt for the solar torch that hugged
flatly against his hip. He uncapped the torch and the miniature sun
glowed redly from its lensed prison to reveal the rocky corridor
stretching out ahead.
Light! How many hours later it was when the first faint glow of white
light reached his eyes Rolf did not know—it had seemed an eternity of
endless plodding along that smooth-floored descending tunnel.
Rolf capped the solar torch. No use wasting the captive energy
needlessly he reasoned. And he loosened the expoder in its holster as
he moved carefully forward. The outlaw headquarters might be close
ahead, headquarters where renegade Frogs, Venusians from the southern
sunken marshes of Mars, and Earthmen from dusty North Mars, concealed
their precious hoard of water from the thirsty colonists of North Mars.
"They may have found the sunken seas of Mars," thought Rolf as he moved
alertly forward, "water that would give the mining domes new life." His
fists clenched dryly. "Water that should be free!"
Then the light brightened before him as he rounded a shouldering wall
of smoothly trimmed stone, and the floor fell away beneath his feet!
He found himself shooting downward into a vast void that glowed softly
with a mysterious all-pervading radiance.
His eyes went searching out, out into undreamed distance. For miles
below him there was nothing but emptiness, and for miles before him
there was that same glowing vacancy. Above the cavern's roof soared
majestically upward; he could see the narrow dark slit through which
his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through
the vaulted rocky dome of this fantastic abyss.
It was then, even as he snapped the release of his spinner and the
nested blades spun free overhead, that he saw the slowly turning bulk
of the cloud-swathed world, a tiny five mile green ball of a planet!
The weird globe was divided equally into hemispheres, and as the tiny
world turned between its confining columns a green, lake-dotted half
alternated with a blasted, splintered black waste of rocky desert. As
the spinner dropped him slowly down into the vast emptiness of the
great shining gulf, Rolf could see that a broad band of stone divided
the green fertile plains and forests from the desolate desert wastes of
the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was
content to let it move in that direction—from the heights of the wall
he could scout out the country beyond.
The wall expanded as he came nearer to the pygmy planet. The spinner
had slowed its speed; it seemed to Rolf that he must be falling free
in space for a time, but the feeble gravity of the tiny world tugged
at him more strongly as he neared the wall. And the barrier became a
jumbled mass of roughly-dressed stone slabs, from whose earth-filled
crevices sprouted green life.
So slowly was the spinner dropping that the blackened desolation of the
other hemisphere came sliding up beneath his boots. He looked down into
great gashes in the blackness of the desert and saw there the green of
sunken oases and watered canyons. He drifted slowly toward the opposite
loom of the mysterious wall with a swift wind off the desert behind him.
A hundred yards from the base of the rocky wall his feet scraped
through black dust, and he came to a stop. Deftly Rolf nested the
spinners again in their pack before he set out toward the heaped-up
mass of stone blocks that was the wall.
Ten steps he took before an excited voice called out shrilly from the
rocks ahead. Rolf's slitted gray eyes narrowed yet more and his hand
dropped to the compact expoder machine-gun holstered at his hip. There
was the movement of a dark shape behind the screen of vines and ragged
bushes.
"Down, Altha," a deeper voice rumbled from above, "it's one of the
Enemy."
The voice had spoken in English! Rolf took a step forward eagerly and
then doubt made his feet falter. There were Earthmen as well as Frogs
among the outlaws. This mysterious world that floated above the cavern
floor might be their headquarters.
"But, Mark," the voice that was now unmistakably feminine argued, "he
wears the uniform of a patrolman."
"May be a trick." The deep voice was doubtful. "You know their leader,
Cannon, wanted you. This may be a trick to join the Outcasts and
kidnap you."
The girl's voice was merry. "Come on Spider-legs," she said.
Rolf found himself staring, open-mouthed, at the sleek-limbed vision
that parted the bushes and came toward him. A beautiful woman she was,
with the long burnished copper of her hair down around her waist, but
beneath the meager shortness of the skin tunic he saw that her firm
flesh was covered with a fine reddish coat of hair. Even her face was
sleek and gleaming with its coppery covering of down.
"Hello, patrol-a-man," she said shyly.
An elongated pencil-ray of a man bounced nervously out to her side.
"Altha," he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a
long-fingered hand, "why do you never listen to me? I promised your
father I'd look after you." He hitched at his tattered skin robe.
The girl laughed, a low liquid sound that made Rolf's heart pump
faster. "This Mark Tanner of mine," she explained to the patrolman,
"is always afraid for me. He does not remember that I can see into the
minds of others."
She smiled again as Rolf's face slowly reddened. "Do not be ashamed,"
she said. "I am not angry that you think I am—well, not too
unattractive."
Rolf threw up the mental block that was the inheritance from his
grueling years of training on Earth Base. His instructors there
had known that a few gifted mortals possess the power of a limited
telepathy, and the secrets of the Planet Patrol must be guarded.
"That is better, perhaps." The girl's face was demure. "And now perhaps
you will visit us in the safety of the vaults of ancient Aryk."
"Sorry," said the tall man as Rolf sprang easily from the ground to
their side. "I'm always forgetting the mind-reading abilities of the
Hairy People."
"She one of them?" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch.
"Mother was." Mark Tanner's voice was louder. "Father was Wayne Stark.
Famous explorer you know. I was his assistant."
"Sure." Rolf nodded. "Lost in equatorial wastelands—uh, about twenty
years ago—2053, I believe."
"Only we were not lost on the surface," explained Tanner, his booming
voice much too powerful for his reedy body, "Wayne Stark was searching
for the lost seas of Mars. Traced them underground. Found them too." He
paused to look nervously out across the blasted wasteland.
"We ran out of fuel here on Lomihi," he finished, "with the vanished
surface waters of Mars less than four miles beneath us."
Rolf followed the direction of the other's pale blue eyes. Overhead now
hung the bottom of the cavern. An almost circular island of pale yellow
lifted above the restless dark waters of a vast sea. Rolf realized with
a wrench of sudden fear that they actually hung head downward like
flies walking across a ceiling.
"There," roared Tanner's voice, "is one of the seas of Mars."
"One," repeated Rolf slowly. "You mean there are more?"
"Dozens of them," the older man's voice throbbed with helpless rage.
"Enough to make the face of Mars green again. Cavern after cavern lies
beyond this first one, their floors flooded with water."
Rolf felt new strength pump into his tired bruised muscles. Here lay
the salvation of Earth's thirsting colonies almost within reach. Once
he could lead the scientists of North Mars to this treasure trove of
water....
"Mark!" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve
and he dropped beside her in the shelter of a clump of coarse-leaved
gray bushes. "The Furry Women attack!"
A hundred paces away Rolf made the dark shapes of armed warriors as
they filed downward from the Barrier into the blackened desolation of
the desert half of Lomihi.
"Enemies?" he whispered to Mark Tanner hoarsely.
"Right." The older man was slipping the stout bowstring into its
notched recess on the upper end of his long bow. "They cross the
Barrier from the fertile plains of Nyd to raid the Hairy People. They
take them for slaves."
"I must warn them." Altha's lips thinned and her brown-flecked eyes
flamed.
"The outlaws may capture," warned Tanner. "They have taken over the
canyons of Gur and Norpar, remember."
"I will take the glider." Altha was on her feet, her body crouched
over to take advantage of the sheltering shrubs. She threaded her way
swiftly back along a rocky corridor in the face of the Barrier toward
the ruins of ancient Aryk.
Tanner shrugged his shoulders. "What can I do? Altha has the blood
of the Hairy People in her veins. She will warn them even though the
outlaws have turned her people against her."
Rolf watched the column of barbarically clad warriors file out upon the
barren desert and swing to the right along the base of the Barrier.
Spear tips and bared swords glinted dully.
"They will pass within a few feet!" he hissed.
"Right." Tanner's fingers bit into Rolf's arm. "Pray that the wind does
not shift, their nostrils are sensitive as those of the weasels they
resemble."
Rolf's eyes slitted. There was something vaguely unhuman about those
gracefully marching figures. He wondered what Tanner had meant by
calling them weasels, wondered until they came closer.
Then he knew. Above half naked feminine bodies, sinuous and supple
as the undulating coils of a serpent, rose the snaky ditigrade head
of a weasel-brute! Their necks were long and wide, merging into
the gray-furred muscles of their narrow bodies until they seemed
utterly shoulderless, and beneath their furry pelts the ripples of
smooth-flowing muscles played rhythmically. There was a stench, a musky
penetrating scent that made the flesh of his body crawl.
"See!" Tanner's voice was muted. "Giffa, Queen of the Furry Ones!"
Borne on a carved and polished litter of ebon-hued wood and yellowed
bone lolled the hideous queen of that advancing horde. Gaunt of body
she was, her scarred gray-furred hide hanging loose upon her breastless
frame. One eye was gone but the other gleamed, black and beady, from
her narrow earless skull. And the skulls of rodents and men alike
linked together into ghastly festoons about her heavy, short-legged
litter.
Men bore the litter, eight broad-shouldered red-haired men whose arms
had been cut off at the shoulders and whose naked backs bore the weals
of countless lashes. Their bodies, like that of Altha, were covered
with a silky coat of reddish hair.
Rolf raised his expoder, red anger clouding his eyes as he saw these
maimed beasts of burden, but the hand of Mark Tanner pressed down
firmly across his arm. The older man shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "When Altha has warned the Hairy People we can cut
off their retreat. After they have passed I will arouse the Outcasts
who live here upon the Barrier. Though their blood is that of the two
races mingled they hate the Furry Ones."
A shadow passed over their hiding place. The Furry Amazons too saw the
indistinct darkness and looked up. High overhead drifted the narrow
winged shape of a glider, and the warrior women shrieked their hatred.
Gone now was their chance for a surprise attack on the isolated canyons
of the Hairy People.
They halted, clustered about their leader. Giffa snarled quick orders
at them, her chisel-teeth clicking savagely. The column swung out into
the wasteland toward the nearest sunken valleys of the Hairy People.
Rolf and Mark Tanner came to their feet.
Abruptly, then, the wind veered. From behind the two Earthmen it came,
bearing the scent of their bodies out to the sensitive nostrils of the
beast-women. Again the column turned. They glimpsed the two men and a
hideous scrawling battle-cry burst from their throats.
Rolf's expoder rattled briefly like a high-speed sewing machine as he
flicked its muzzle back and forth along the ranks of attacking Furry
Ones. Dozens of the hideous weasel creatures fell as the needles of
explosive blasted them but hundreds more were swarming over their
fallen sisters. Mark Tanner's bow twanged again and again as he drove
arrows at the bloodthirsty warrior women. But the Furry Ones ran
fearlessly into that rain of death.
The expoder hammered in Rolf's heavy fist.
Tanner smashed an elbow into Rolf's side. "Retreat!" he gasped.
The Furry Amazons swarmed up over the lower terraces of rocks, their
snaky heads thrust forward and their swords slashing. The two Earthmen
bounded up and backward to the next jumbled layer of giant blocks
behind them, their powerful earthly muscles negating Lomihi's feeble
gravity. Spears showered thick about them and then they dropped behind
the sheltering bulk of a rough square boulder.
"Now where?" Rolf snapped another burst of expoder needles at the furry
attackers as he asked.
"To the vaults beneath the Forbidden City," Mark Tanner cried. "None
but the Outcasts and we two have entered the streets of deserted Aryk."
The bald scientist slung his bow over his head and one shoulder and
went bounding away along a shadowy crevice that plunged raggedly into
the heart of the Barrier. Rolf blasted another spurt of explosive
needles at the Furry Ones and followed.
Darkness thickened as they penetrated into the maze of the Barrier's
shattered heart. An unseen furry shape sprang upon Rolf's shoulders
and as he sank to his knees he felt hot saliva drip like acid upon his
neck. His fist sent the attacker's bulk smashing against the rocky
floor before fangs or claws could rip at his tender flesh, and he heard
a choked snarl that ended convulsively in silence.
Bat-winged blobs of life dragged wet leathery hide across his face, and
beneath his feet slimy wriggling things crushed into quivering pulp.
Then there was faint light again, and the high-vaulted roof of a rock
dungeon rose above him.
Mark Tanner was peering out a slitted embrasure that overlooked the
desolate land of the Hairy People.
Tanner's finger pointed. "Altha!" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the
glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. "She had warned the
Hairy People, and now she returns."
"The weasel heads won't follow us here?" asked Rolf.
Tanner laughed. "Hardly. They fear the spirits of the Ancients too much
for that. They believe the invisible powers will drink their souls."
"Then how about telling me about this hanging world?"
"Simply the whim of an ancient Martian ruler. As I have learned from
the inscriptions and metal tablets here in Aryk he could not conquer
all of Mars so he created a world that would be all his own."
Rolf laughed. "Like the pleasure globes of the wealthy on Earth."
"Right." Tanner kept his eyes on the enlarging winged shape of Altha's
flyer as he spoke. "Later, when the nations of Mars began draining off
the seas and hoarding them in their underground caverns, Lomihi became
a fortress for the few thousand aristocrats and slaves who escaped the
surface wars.
"The Hairy People were the rulers," he went on, "and the Furry Ones
were their slaves. In the revolt that eventually split Lomihi into two
warring races this city, Aryk, was destroyed by a strange vegetable
blight and the ancient knowledge was lost to both races."
"But," Rolf frowned thoughtfully, "what keeps Lomihi from crashing into
the island? Surely the two columns at either end cannot support it?"
"The island is the answer," said Tanner. "Somehow it blocks the force
of gravity—shields Lomihi from...." He caught his breath suddenly.
"The outlaws!" he cried. "They're after Altha."
Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail
wing. He saw the girl go gliding steeply down toward a ragged jumble
of volcanic spurs and pits and disappear from view. He turned to see
the old man pushing another crudely constructed glider toward the outer
wall of the rock chamber.
Tanner tugged at a silvery metal bar inset into the stone wall. A
section of the wall swung slowly inward. Rolf sprang to his side.
"Let me follow," he said. "I can fly a glider, and I have my expoder."
The older man's eyes were hot. He jerked at Rolf's hands and then
suddenly thought better of it. "You're right," he agreed. "Help her if
you can. Your weapon is our only hope now."
Rolf pushed up and outward with all the strength of his weary muscles.
The glider knifed forward with that first swift impetus, and drove out
over the Barrier. The Furry Ones were struggling insect shapes below
him, and he saw with a thrill that larger bodied warriors, whose bodies
glinted with a dull bronze, were attacking them from the burnt-out
wastelands. The Hairy People had come to battle the invaders.
He guided the frail wing toward the shattered badlands where the girl
had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed
near its center in a narrow strip of rocky gulch. A sudden thought made
him grin. He drove directly toward the grounded ship. With this rocket
flyer he could escape from Lomihi, return through the thirty-seven
caverns to the upper world, and give to thirsty Mars the gift of
limitless water again.
A man stood on guard just outside the flyer's oval door. Rolf lined up
his expoder and his jaw tensed. He guided the tiny soarer closer with
one hand. If he could crash the glider into the guard, well and good.
There would be no explosion of expoder needles to warn the fellow's
comrades. But if the outlaw saw him Rolf knew that he would be the
first to fire—his was the element of surprise.
A score of feet lay between them, and suddenly the outlaw whirled
about. Rolf pressed the firing button; the expoder clicked over once
and the trimmer key jammed, and the doughy-faced Venusian swung up his
own long-barreled expoder!
Rolf snapped his weapon overhand at the Frog's hairless skull. The
fish-bellied alien ducked but his expoder swung off the target
momentarily. In that instant Rolf launched himself from the open
framework of the slowly diving glider, full upon the Venusian.
They went down, Rolf swinging his fist like a hammer. He felt the Frog
go limp and he loosed a relieved whistle. Now with a rocket flyer and
the guard's rifle expoder in his grasp the problem of escape from
the inner caverns was solved. He would rescue the girl, stop at the
Forbidden City for Mark Tanner, and blast off for the upper crust forty
miles and more overhead.
He knelt over the prostrate Venusian, using his belt and a strip torn
from his greenish tunic to bind the unconscious man. The knots were
not too tight, the man could free himself in the course of a few hours.
He shrugged his shoulders wearily and started to get up.
A foot scraped on stone behind him. He spun on bent knees and flung
himself fifty feet to the further side of the narrow gulch with the
same movement. Expoder needles splintered the rocks about him as he
dropped behind a sheltering rocky ledge, and he caught a glimpse of two
green-clad men dragging the bronze-haired body of the girl he had come
to save into the shelter of the flyer.
A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his
captured weapon's firing button. A roar of pain came from the wounded
man, and he saw an outflung arm upon the rocky ground that clenched
tightly twice and relaxed to move no more. The outlaw weapon must have
been loaded with a drum of poisoned needles, the expoder needles had
not blasted a vital spot in the man's body.
The odds were evening, he thought triumphantly. There might be another
outlaw somewhere out there in the badlands, but no more than that. The
flyer was built to accommodate no more than five passengers and four
was the usual number. He shifted his expoder to cover the opposite end
of the ship's squatty fuselage.
And something that felt like a mountain smashed into his back. He was
crushed downward, breathless, his eyes glimpsing briefly the soiled
greenish trousers of his attacker as they locked on either side of
his neck, and then blackness engulfed him as a mighty sledge battered
endlessly at his skull.
This sledge was hammering relentlessly as Rolf sensed his first
glimmer of returning light. There were two sledges, one of them that
he identified as the hammering of blood in his throbbing temples, and
the other the measured blasting pulse of rocket jets. He opened his
eyes slowly to find himself staring at the fine-crusted metal plates
of a flyer's deck. His nose was grinding into the oily muck that only
undisciplined men would have permitted to accumulate.
Cautiously his head twisted until he could look forward toward the
controls. The bound body of Altha Stark faced him, and he saw her lips
twist into a brief smile of recognition. She shook her head and frowned
as he moved his arm. But Rolf had learned that his limbs were not
bound—apparently the outlaws had considered him out of the blasting
for the moment.
By degrees Rolf worked his arm down to his belt where his solar torch
was hooked. His fingers made careful adjustments within the inset base
of the torch, pushing a lever here and adjusting a tension screw there.
The ship bumped gently as it landed and the thrum of rockets ceased.
The cabin shifted with the weight of bodies moving from their seats.
Rolf heard voices from a distance and the answering triumphant bawling
of his two captors. The moment had come. He turned the cap of the solar
torch away from his body and freed it.
Heat blasted at his body as the stepped-up output of the torch made the
oily floor flame. He lay unmoving while the thick smoke rolled over him.
"Fire!" There was panic in the outlaw's voice. Rolf came to his knees
in the blanketing fog and looked forward.
One of the men flung himself out the door, but the other reached
for the extinguisher close at hand. His thoughts were on the oily
smoke; not on the prisoners, and so the impact of Rolf's horizontally
propelled body drove the breath from his lungs before his hand could
drop to his belted expoder.
The outlaw was game. His fists slammed back at Rolf, and his knees
jolted upward toward the patrolman's vulnerable middle. But Rolf
bored in, his own knotted hands pumping, and his trained body weaving
instinctively aside from the crippling blows aimed at his body. For a
moment they fought, coughing and choking from the thickening pall of
smoke, and then the fingers of the outlaw clamped around Rolf's throat
and squeezed hard.
The patrolman was weary; the wreck in the upper cavern and the long
trek afterward through the dark tunnels had sapped his strength, and
now he felt victory slipping from his grasp.
He felt something soft bump against his legs, legs so far below that he
could hardly realize that they were his, and then he was falling with
the relentless fingers still about his throat. As from a great distant
he heard a cry of pain and the blessed air gulped into his raw throat.
His eyes cleared.
He saw Altha's bound body and head. Her jaws were clamped upon the
arm of the outlaw and even as he fought for more of the reeking smoky
air of the cabin he saw the man's clenched fist batter at her face.
Rolf swung, all the weight of his stocky body behind the blow, and the
outlaw thudded limply against the opposite wall of the little cabin.
No time to ask the girl if she were injured. The patrolman flung
himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship
rocketing skyward. Behind him the thin film of surface oil no longer
burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air.
"Patrolman," the girl's voice was beside him. "We're safe!"
"Everything bongo?" Rolf wanted to know.
"Of course," she smiled crookedly.
"Glad of that." Rolf felt the warmth of her body so close beside him. A
sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact.
Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. "Do you know," she said, "even
yet I do not know your name."
Rolf grinned up at her. "Need to?" he asked.
The girl's eyes widened. A responsive spark blazed in them. "Handier
than calling you
Shorty
all the time," she quipped.
Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten
Furry Ones racing back across the great wall toward the Plains of
Nyd. He nosed the captured ship down toward the ruined plaza of
the Forbidden City. Once Mark Tanner was aboard they would blast
surfaceward with their thrilling news that all Mars could have water in
plenty again.
Rolf snorted. "Shorty," he said disgustedly as they landed, but his arm
went out toward the girl's red-haired slimness, and curved around it. | What is Rolf's new plan when he spots the rocket?
(A) Now that he knows the location of the water, he'll be able to return to grab it for himself.
(B) He'll have a way out of the caverns at last, be able to escape.
(C) He can escape the fighting and leave Tanner and the girl behind.
(D) He'll be able to distribute water to Mar's colonies, and get out with Tanner and the girl.
| {
"answer_start": [
296
],
"text": [
"He'll be able to distribute water to Mar's colonies, and get out with Tanner and the girl."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_1 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_1_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | Why is it suspected that William Shawn blushed at Green's remark?
(A) He was known for disallowing sexual content from his publications and was put off by the comment.
(B) As someone who looked into risque material himself, it piqued his curiosity.
(C) The phrasing took him by surprise. It's not the answer he thought he'd receive.
(D) He was prudish in nature, and he was embarrassed by it.
| {
"answer_start": [
176
],
"text": [
"As someone who looked into risque material himself, it piqued his curiosity."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_2 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_2_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | What's true of Ross's accounts of Shawn?
(A) She had a difficult time describing her true feelings.
(B) She contradicts herself often. She describes him one way than an inverse way pages later.
(C) She tells the objective truth about her and Shawn, and the relationship they shared.
(D) She has a habit of glorifying Shawn.
| {
"answer_start": [
108
],
"text": [
"She contradicts herself often. She describes him one way than an inverse way pages later."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_3 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_3_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | What is the writer's view of Mehta's works?
(A) They found it boring.
(B) They wished that Shawn set a restriction on how many words he allowed Mehta to publish.
(C) They appreciate that he persisted in telling his story.
(D) Like other critics, they found the growing word count intolerable.
| {
"answer_start": [
172
],
"text": [
"They appreciate that he persisted in telling his story."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_4 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_4_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | What stance does the writer take in regards to Tina Brown.
(A) A neutral one. The anecdotes offered are too biased to make a judgement either way.
(B) They agree with Ross, that Brown carried the same mentality as Shawn.
(C) Brown's presence saddened Shawn, as evidence by him no longer reading the magazine.
(D) Brown has built on William Shawn's legacy in her own way.
| {
"answer_start": [
66
],
"text": [
"A neutral one. The anecdotes offered are too biased to make a judgement either way."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_5 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_5_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | What is an underlying issue that the writer touches upon throughout the whole passage?
(A) The two memoirs are completely inaccurate, and thus nothing that is offered can be true.
(B) Shawn clearly had deep relationships with many people. Thus, it's hard to fully understand his life and his thoughts.
(C) Shawn had been cheating on his wife, and even without getting a proper divorce he still pursued Ross.
(D) There are different sources with differing opinions, making it hard to infer the total truth about Shawn and later Tina Brown.
| {
"answer_start": [
420
],
"text": [
"There are different sources with differing opinions, making it hard to infer the total truth about Shawn and later Tina Brown."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_6 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_6_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | How do Ross and Mehta view Brown's acquisition of the magazine?
(A) Neither has a strong opinion on the matter, until after Shawn's death.
(B) Mehta felt betrayed by being let go; Ross said she saw the same personality in her as Shawn and was glad to be invited back.
(C) Ross was glad to see it brought a new interest in the magazine to Shawn, despite Mehta feeling otherwise.
(D) Mehta resents that Shawn passed away so soon after her being brought on, while Ross was just happy to have a job again.
| {
"answer_start": [
147
],
"text": [
"Mehta felt betrayed by being let go; Ross said she saw the same personality in her as Shawn and was glad to be invited back."
]
} |
|
20015_DIAMWBW8_7 | 20015_DIAMWBW8_7_0 | Goings On About Town
One of the funniest moments
in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes
during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;
William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English
writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very
favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed
delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could
possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green
obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest
times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday
morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was
not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red
begin to burn in his cheeks."
Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to
infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man
who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to
four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five
years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I
wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"
Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,
Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's
favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"
( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty
fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to
home.
Both these
memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the
important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The
New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more
entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer
whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring
acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing
that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what
this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each
other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by
the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely
venting the inflations of her heart.
Shawn was managing editor of The New
Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter
(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to
die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."
During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A
few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,
to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were
consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an
apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and
stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a
divorce.
Now, Ross
seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I
hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public
flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,
it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William
Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New
Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was
balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So
what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,
serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,
which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the
magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,
civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much
Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating
tea and toast with cunty fingers.
Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it
is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who
grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add
that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in
1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.
Even Jesus had his limits.
Elsewhere,
Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the
very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he
would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable
of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the
most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:
"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a
point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic
Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic
cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in
anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to
see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of
packages.
And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found
her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."
There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and
humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."
William
Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word
repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both
challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was
fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising
his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,
of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost
mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire
enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.
When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New
Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things
as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's
supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the
butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in
the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the
years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the
publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length
of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"
But it
kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab
during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by
meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore
as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was
collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an
Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New
Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and
better-than-Proustian prose ... !
Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled
Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,
of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.
Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was
hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"
by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta
evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although
his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the
character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone
who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful
of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous
arguments for hours on end."
Like
Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as
if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once
to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of
devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn
sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The
Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous
that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:
"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself
compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or
night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting
and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve
you!"
I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but
Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have
ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is
stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at
The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:
His door was
always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle
from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the
typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but
without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.
Or the great and eccentric
Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.
Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and
prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24
West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston
at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him
"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)
Mehta's
writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect
for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late
'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to
succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si
Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and
Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.
Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather
cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed
Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found
that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of
naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "
A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He
had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.
That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina
Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his
death.
Has Tina Brown betrayed the
legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and
built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought
enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are
weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances
by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this. | What best summarizes what the author has to say about William Shawn?
(A) He had a magnetic personality, as shown in the way Ross and Mehta gravitated towards him.
(B) While quiet on the outside, he was a man prone to adultery.
(C) He was a respectable man with complexities that weren't always obvious and is hard to pin down based on the stories told of him.
(D) He lived a simple life and worked hard to publish his magazine.
| {
"answer_start": [
237
],
"text": [
"He was a respectable man with complexities that weren't always obvious and is hard to pin down based on the stories told of him."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_1 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_1_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | Why was human cloning banned?
(A) It was a preemptive measure. It's too complex to allow it to be explored unregulated.
(B) It is objectively immoral and "evil."
(C) It was an easy political stance for Bill Clinton to take.
(D) There was no real research behind it, so there was no pushback on a bad.
| {
"answer_start": [
37
],
"text": [
"It was a preemptive measure. It's too complex to allow it to be explored unregulated."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_2 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_2_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | What is the main reason the writer takes issue with the Pope's stance on cloning?
(A) His opinion on it carries too much weight on how the ban is handled.
(B) When he supports the ban, he goes beyond his position as a religious leader for a specific group of people.
(C) The writer feels that humans have the right to choose how they reproduce, and the Pope is disallowing that.
(D) The Bible says nothing about cloning in it.
| {
"answer_start": [
163
],
"text": [
"When he supports the ban, he goes beyond his position as a religious leader for a specific group of people."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_3 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_3_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | Why does the writer use other medical procedures as evidence to support cloning?
(A) To show that there is a demand for more reproductive aids like cloning.
(B) To show that the fear of cloning is not based on science.
(C) To show that reproduction has always been assisted to the benefit of people one way or another, with good results.
(D) To prove the science behind cloning and to show it is based in commonly used practices.
| {
"answer_start": [
229
],
"text": [
"To show that reproduction has always been assisted to the benefit of people one way or another, with good results."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_4 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_4_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | How does the writer use twins in their argument?
(A) They show that clones already exist, and are proven to grow as individuals and have their own individual rights.
(B) They show that like twins, clones use the same DNA to make people with shared characteristics.
(C) They use twins to show that if clones did exist, they would grow up the same way that twins do.
(D) They show that twins are a common occurrence, meaning cloning would not be such a new concept to introduce.
| {
"answer_start": [
55
],
"text": [
"They show that clones already exist, and are proven to grow as individuals and have their own individual rights."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_5 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_5_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | How do plants factor into the cloning argument?
(A) They show that the idea of cloning is a possible one because some plants undergo a similar process.
(B) Plant cloning is unnatural and a human-made process.
(C) They are another example of how humans have influenced reproduction before.
(D) They are another example of it happening in nature, and being normal in our day-to-day lives.
| {
"answer_start": [
301
],
"text": [
"They are another example of it happening in nature, and being normal in our day-to-day lives."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_6 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_6_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | How would jealously possibly factor into the issue of cloning?
(A) Clones would be genetically superior, as they'd be able to choose what traits to pass down.
(B) People may envy the social recognition that clones would receive. They'd be missing out on the same popularity.
(C) Clones get in between people and their spouses. They're too separate and impersonal.
(D) People would be "losing" a sexual advantage in not being able to reproduce a clone directly themselves.
| {
"answer_start": [
376
],
"text": [
"People would be \"losing\" a sexual advantage in not being able to reproduce a clone directly themselves."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_7 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_7_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | Why, according to the writer, is the main underlying reason that people are opposed to cloning?
(A) They don't understand the scientific reasoning enough. If they had the knowledge, they would more readily support it.
(B) People are afraid of rich people and dictators being cloned and thus continued to be in power.
(C) People like Bill Clinton have instilled a fear of it with his policies.
(D) They are too scared of the unknown and blinded by their prejudices. They believe that cloning would usurp them in one way or another.
| {
"answer_start": [
405
],
"text": [
"They are too scared of the unknown and blinded by their prejudices. They believe that cloning would usurp them in one way or another."
]
} |
|
20001_LKWTQ4I2_8 | 20001_LKWTQ4I2_8_0 | Human Clones: Why Not?
If you can clone a sheep,
you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people
in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton
swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are
in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged
on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1)
a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a
complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly,
is so bad about it?
Start by
asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say "yes." I have no
moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I
don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, "Let us
resist the temptation to copy ourselves," it comes from a man not known for
resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise
about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way
to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about,
without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded
research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has
maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in
human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was
impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog.
There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership.
The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting
temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce.
I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom
to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban,
thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly
that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic
religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep
feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on
cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century
religious thinking to a 21 st century issue.
If humans have a right to
reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all
reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often
before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality
and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women.
True, some
forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro
fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically
implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised
over the ethical issues involved in "test-tube babies." To date, nearly 30,000
such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents
have been made happy. Who has been harmed?
The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The
only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from
an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says
that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not?
No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think
you'll find the answer.
Even if
people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every
prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead
produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30
years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic
aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the
current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he
is us !
Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of
famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering
for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even
celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with
celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct
itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity.
The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million
of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing.
Clones already exist. About
one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We
know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together
or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share
is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely
irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual
characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different
people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their
own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just
ask a twin.
Suppose that Unsolved
Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that
suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see
how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a
different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger
than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into
this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA.
Twins
aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel
oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant
equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones,
propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned
product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from
shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is
true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with
delightful names like "Olivia's Cloning Compound," a mix of hormones to dunk on
the cut end of a shoot to help it take root.
One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda
is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who
is going to raise such an army ("raise" in the sense used by parents)? Clones
start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old
fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young
men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success?
Remember
that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make
superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from
Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be
genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a
brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a
competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable
perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply
sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed
an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point?
There's not exactly a shortage of them.
What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another
thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make
his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of
Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say,
we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's
daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as
Great Leader, Version 2.0.
The notion
of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is
unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer
really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a
younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different
from fathering a child via a surrogate mother.
Fear of clones is just another form of racism.
We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of
genetic characteristics known as "race." Calls for a ban on cloning amount to
discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that
somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of
discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In
this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must
eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation.
What is
so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable
way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult.
Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and
dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene
pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because
we use medical science to control the death rate.
Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural
reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and
uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The
people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile
couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix
genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple
has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent,
rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal.
The most
upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's
that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of
giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child
of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may
resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So
what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is
hardly the means with which to try and stop them.
The "deep ethical issues" about cloning mainly
boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor
here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of
evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely
jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling
your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar
chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.
Once the
fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human
cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in
human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research
into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy
changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward.
In using an adult cell to create a clone, the "cellular clock" that determines
the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area
might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset
the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly
speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help
me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical
twin 40 years my junior.
To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the
mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others,
including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes
that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge.
Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is
squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail
against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They
embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and
fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even
clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the
discoveries of the next age. | What is the underlying defence that the writer has in defence of cloning?
(A) There is nothing to fear about it. It can't be used for evil, and there is no evidence suggesting it will affect us negatively.
(B) There is nothing intrinsically unnatural or immoral about it. Science supports it, and we already owe ourselves to previous new methodologies.
(C) It will be a great way to continue the populace. It will give people different options in terms of raising children, and even continuing their own lives vicariously through their clones.
(D) It is going to happen anyway, so people may as well accept it for what it is and move on.
| {
"answer_start": [
213
],
"text": [
"There is nothing intrinsically unnatural or immoral about it. Science supports it, and we already owe ourselves to previous new methodologies."
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_1 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_1_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | From the passage, what can be inferred about Retief's personality?
(A) He's a "hick" as he is referred
(B) He's careful with his decisions
(C) He's scared to push the buttons on the wrong person
(D) He's tough and determined
| {
"answer_start": [
205
],
"text": [
"He's tough and determined"
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_2 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_2_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | What can be inferred from the passage about Jorgensen's Worlds?
(A) It's difficult to locate and makes travel rather uncommon
(B) Tourists are no longer welcome and travel has been halted.
(C) It's existence is only known as top-secret so there is no information about it.
(D) Ships are unable to land due to too many tourists
| {
"answer_start": [
133
],
"text": [
"Tourists are no longer welcome and travel has been halted."
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_3 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_3_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | How do you think Retief felt during his time on the ship?
(A) Overwhelmed by bullies
(B) Fearful of what he would encounter once they landed
(C) Scared of what they had planned for him
(D) Annoyed by the grievance he was receiving.
| {
"answer_start": [
194
],
"text": [
"Annoyed by the grievance he was receiving."
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_4 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_4_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | What would have likely happened if Tony had attempted to apprehend and remove Retief himself?
(A) He would see the same fate as the others who had stood against Retief
(B) Retief would have backed off and accepted he was not welcome
(C) Retief would have communicated with him and solved their issue
(D) Tony would have won any kind of fight by using his weapon
| {
"answer_start": [
100
],
"text": [
"He would see the same fate as the others who had stood against Retief"
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_5 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_5_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | Why did the guard tell Retief that the schedule for Jorgensen's World was filled up?
(A) The gates were closing and he didn't want to take the time for the boarding session
(B) The VIP accommodation requested no tourists
(C) He was lazy and didn't want to do his job.
(D) There were too many tourists on board already and the ship was full
| {
"answer_start": [
180
],
"text": [
"The VIP accommodation requested no tourists"
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_6 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_6_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | Why did the Captain decide to change course and skip Jorgensen's World?
(A) They were avoiding going to Jorgensen's World because of Retief's presence
(B) The journey was too dangerous and long to travel
(C) Alabaster was a better opportunity for all on board
(D) They had to retreat because of the trouble with the Sweaties
| {
"answer_start": [
78
],
"text": [
"They were avoiding going to Jorgensen's World because of Retief's presence"
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_7 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_7_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | What can be inferred about the destination decision at the end of the passsage?
(A) They will be turning back around to where they came from and calling off the trip
(B) Retief will ensure the ship travels to Jorgensen's World, as initially planned
(C) It's still unclear at the end of the passage
(D) They will be traveling to Alabaster in stead, per the Captain's orders
| {
"answer_start": [
173
],
"text": [
"Retief will ensure the ship travels to Jorgensen's World, as initially planned"
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_8 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_8_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | Why was Retief's mission to Jorgensen's Worlds so important?
(A) He held vital information that could change the picture of the future of the area
(B) He was a useful aggressor who could take down an entire army if needed
(C) He was responsible for ensuring that Tony did not enter Jorgensen's Worlds
(D) He was the only member who was skilled in traveling
| {
"answer_start": [
67
],
"text": [
"He held vital information that could change the picture of the future of the area"
]
} |
|
61097_L4LGF3WL_9 | 61097_L4LGF3WL_9_0 | THE FROZEN PLANET
By Keith Laumer
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
Magnan started to shake his head.
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
"When does this attack happen?"
"Less than four weeks."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
"Just a feeling I've got."
"Please yourself."
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
"Was there something?" he said.
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
"What time does it leave?"
"I don't think—"
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
Retief looked at him.
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
"Which gate?" Retief said.
"For ... ah...?"
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
To Gates 16-30
.
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
"Whassat?"
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
"On your way, bub," he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
"Mister, you must be—"
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
"Don't try it," he said softly.
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
III
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
"I see your point."
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
"Chip, you're a genius."
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
Mr. Tony found his voice.
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
The panel opened.
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
"Come in, damn you," he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
"Quick, soft one."
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
"What secret? I—"
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
IV
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
"Come on in."
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
"That's right, Chip."
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
"You've got damn big ears."
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
"Not bloody likely."
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
"You busted it, you—"
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
"You can't put it over, hick."
"Tell him."
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
Retief settled himself in a chair.
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this." | What can be inferred about the personality of Chip?
(A) He was selfish and wanted everyone else to suffer
(B) He was caring and generous when no one else was
(C) He was an old, hateful man who didn't appreciate back talk
(D) He only cared about the food he prepared
| {
"answer_start": [
113
],
"text": [
"He was caring and generous when no one else was"
]
} |
|
63442_IZ24VQ04_1 | 63442_IZ24VQ04_1_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | What can be inferred about the personality of Grannie Annie from the passage?
(A) She's fearless and quick-witted
(B) She's fearful and hard to work with
(C) She lacks the experience that she claims she has for her novels
(D) She lacks the knowledge that is needed for her novels
| {
"answer_start": [
84
],
"text": [
"She's fearless and quick-witted"
]
} |
|
63442_IZ24VQ04_2 | 63442_IZ24VQ04_2_0 | DOUBLE TROUBLE
by CARL JACOBI
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
I was running in circles—especially since
Grannie became twins every now and then.
We had left the offices of
Interstellar Voice
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
Lady of the Green Flames
,
Lady of the Runaway Planet
,
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
Interstellar Voice
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
Interstellar Voice
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
"What do you mean?"
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
Interstellar Voice
and
Larynx Incorporated
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
"Look what I found," I yelled.
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
Larynx Incorporated
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
Larynx Incorporated
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
Larynx Incorporated
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
Interstellar Voice
, our rival, in a year."
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
"Let's look around," I said.
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
Larynx Incorporated
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
Look at that damned nosy bird!
"
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
The
real
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
"Look here," he said.
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
"Turn it on!"
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
We've got to catch him."
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
Larynx Incorporated
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
Interstellar Voice
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. | Why was Baker hesitant to send his employees on an enforced vacation?
(A) He feared they would have too much difficulty getting the employees back to work.
(B) He feared that would not stop the plague of Red Spot Fever.
(C) He feared they would lose chartered rights with Spacolonial
(D) He feared their work would suffer from the break.
| {
"answer_start": [
228
],
"text": [
"He feared they would lose chartered rights with Spacolonial"
]
} |