Astounding Stories of Super-Science, March 1930 Part 4

As he finished his head slumped forward on his chest. With an exclamation of dismay Dr. Bird sprang forward and tried to lift the prostrate form.

In an agony of desire the Doctor tightened his grip on the dying man's shoulder. But Smith collapsed into a heap. Dr. Bird bent forward and tore open his s.h.i.+rt and listened at his chest. Presently he straightened up.

"He is gone," he said sadly, "and I guess the results of his genius have died with him. He doesn't strike me as a man who left overmuch to chance. Carnes, is your case completed?"

"Very satisfactorily, Doctor. I have both of the lost packets."

"All right, then, come back to the wreck and help me pack my burros. I can make my way back to Fallon without a guide."

"Where are you going, Doctor?"

"That, Carnes, old dear, is none of your blankety blanked business.

Permit me to remind you that I am on my vacation. I haven't decided yet just where I am going, but I can tell you one thing. It's going to be some place where you can't call me on the telephone."

Brigands of the Moon

(The Book of Gregg Haljan) BEGINNING A FOUR-PART NOVEL

_By Ray c.u.mmings_

Black mutiny and brigandage stalk the s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p Planetara as she speeds to the Moon to pick up a fabulously rich cache of radium-ore.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _I stood on the turret-balcony of the Planetara with Dr.

Frank, watching the arriving pa.s.sengers._]

_Foreword by Ray c.u.mmings_

I have been thinking that if, during one of those long winter evenings at Valley Forge, someone had placed in George Was.h.i.+ngton's hands one of our present day best sellers, the ill.u.s.trious Father of our Country would have read it with considerable emotion. I do not mean what we call a story of science, or fantasy--just a novel of action, adventure and romance. The sort of thing you and I like to read, but do not find amazing in any way at all.

But I fancy that George Was.h.i.+ngton would have found it amazing. Don't you? It might picture, for instance, a factory girl at a sewing machine.

George Was.h.i.+ngton would be amazed at a sewing machine. And the girl, journeying in the subway to and from her work! Stealing an opportunity to telephone her lover at the noon hour; going to the movies in the evening, or listening to a radio. And there might be a climax, perhaps, with the girl and the villain in a transcontinental railway Pullman, and the hero sending frantic telegrams, or telephoning the train, and then chasing it in his airplane.

George Was.h.i.+ngton would have found it amazing!

And I am wondering how you and I would feel if someone were to give us now a book of ordinary adventure of the sort which will be published a hundred and fifty years hence. I have been trying to imagine such a book and the nature of its contents.

Let us imagine it together. Suppose we walk down Fifth Avenue, a pleasant spring morning of May, 2080. Fifth Avenue, no doubt, will be there. I don't know whether the New York Public Library will be there or not. We'll a.s.sume that it is, and that it has some sort of books, printed, or in whatever fas.h.i.+on you care to imagine.

The young man library attendant is surprised at our curiously antiquated aspect. We look as though we were dressed for some historical costume ball. We talk old-fas.h.i.+oned English, like actors in an historical play of the 1930 period.

But we get the book. The attendant a.s.sures us it is a good average story of action and adventure. Nothing remarkable, but he read it himself, and found it interesting.

We thank him and take the book. But we find that the language in which it is written is too strange for comfortable reading. And it names so many extraordinary things so casually! As though we knew all about them, which we certainly do not!

So we take it to the kind-hearted librarian in the language division. He modifies it to old-fas.h.i.+oned English of 1930, and he puts occasional footnotes to help explain some of the things we might not understand.

Why he should bother to do this for us I don't know; but let us a.s.sume that he does.

And now we take the book home--in the pneumatic tube, or aerial moving sidewalk, or airs.h.i.+p, or whatever it is we take to get home.

And now that we are home, let's read the book. It ought to be interesting.

CHAPTER I

_Tells of the Grantline Moon Expedition and of the Mysterious Martian Who Followed Us in the City Corridor_

One may write about oneself and still not be an egoist. Or so, at least, they tell me. My narrative went broadcast with a fair success. It was pantomimed and the public flashed me a reasonable approval. And so my disc publishers have suggested that I record it in more permanent form.

I introduce myself, begging grace that I intrude upon your busy minutes, with my only excuse that perhaps I may amuse you. For what the commercial sellers of my pictured version were pleased to blare as my handsome face, I ask your indulgence. My feminine audience of the pantomimes was undoubtedly graciously pleased at my personality and physical aspect. That I am "tall as a Viking of old"--and "handsome as a young Norse G.o.d"--is very pretty talk in the selling of my product. But I deplore its intrusion into the personality of this, my recorded narrative. And so now, for preface, to all my audience I do give earnest a.s.surance that Gregg Haljan is no conceited zebra, handsomely striped by nature, and proud of it. Not so. I am, I do beg you to believe, a very humble fellow, striving for your approval, hoping only to entertain you.

My introduction: My name, Gregg Haljan. My age, twenty-five years. I was, at the time my narrative begins, Third Officer on the s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p Planetara. Our line was newly established; in 2070, to be exact, following the modern improvements of the Martel Magnetic Levitation.[1]

Our s.h.i.+p, whose home port was Great-New York, carried mail and pa.s.senger traffic to and from both Venus and Mars. Of astronomical necessity, our flights were irregular. This spring, with the two other planets both close to the earth, we were making two complete round trips. We had just arrived in Great-New York, this May evening, from Grebhar, Venus Free State. With only five hours in port here, we were departing the same night at the zero hour for Ferrok-Shahn, capital of the Martian Union.

We were no sooner at the landing stage than I found a code-flash summoning Dan Dean and me to Divisional Detective Headquarters. Dan "Snap" Dean was one of my closest friends. He was radio-helio operator of the Planetara. A small, wiry, red-headed chap, with a quick, ready laugh and a wit that made everyone like him.

The summons to Detective-Colonel Halsey's office surprised us. Snap eyed me.

"You haven't been opening any treasury vaults, have you, Gregg?"

"He wants you, also," I retorted.

He laughed. "Well, he can roar at me like a traffic switchman and my private life will remain my own."

We could not think why we should be wanted. It was the darkness of mid-evening when we left the Planetara for Halsey's office. It was not a long trip. We went direct in the upper monorail, descending into the subterranean city at Park-Circle 30.

We had never been to Halsey's office before. We found it to be a gloomy, vaultlike place in one of the deepest corridors. The door lifted.

"Gregg Haljan and Daniel Dean."

The guard stood aside. "Come in."

I own that my heart was unduly thumping as we entered. The door dropped behind us. It was a small blue-lit apartment--a steel-lined room like a vault.

Colonel Halsey sat at his desk. And the big, heavy-set, florid Captain Carter--our commander of the Planetara--was here. That surprised us: we had not seen him leave the s.h.i.+p.

Halsey smiled at us gravely. Captain Carter said, "Sit down, lads."

We took the seats. There was an alarming solemnity about this. If I had been guilty of anything that I could think of, it would have been frightening. But Halsey's first words rea.s.sured me.