Collected short fiction, p.533
Collected Short Fiction, page 533
“That’s the truth?” Desperately, Jenkins studied her calm face. “You really mean to help?”
“Haven’t I proved it?”
He shook his head. Her low voice had a throb of conviction and her cool eyes looked honest. He wanted desperately to like her and trust her. But doubt clung to him.
“Anyhow, you must go along with me.” Her brief, tiny smile mocked his misgivings. “Unless you want that bullet in the back!”
“Lead on.” Jenkins shrugged bleakly. “I’ve got nothing to lose.” Not even my life, he added silently.
Watching the sober little crinkles that creased her fine nose as she frowned at her watch again, he felt a bright, warm wistfulness come over him. If he weren’t dying—
“It’s time.” She stepped quickly to peer around the corner, and signaled to him urgently. “There’s to be a car parked across the street.” The sentry at the door was a bronzed Earthman in the uniform of the High Space Guard, who nodded slightly at them, blank-faced, and whispered sharply:
“Move on—fast!”
Out in the street, Jenkins could imagine guns thrust out of all the windows behind him. He tried to keep from moving conspicuously fast.
“Don’t be too casual.” The girl caught his arm to hurry him across the empty pavement to a small electric car. She ignored a gray battle tank stopped at the street intersection. “Get in,” she whispered. “You drive. I’ve official passes.” Nervously, Jenkins started the car. The girl thrust two small gray cards into his fingers, and he glanced at the names. N. Jenkins, court clerk. J. Hardin, court typist. A guard near the tank looked at the cards and snapped:
“Get along, mister—and get off the streets.”
Jenkins drove on.
“Well?” he muttered at the girl. “Now what?”
“Now you’re on your own,” she told him softly. “I’ve got you out of jail, and the rest is up to you.” Her cool blue eyes seemed to challenge him. “What are your plans, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Plans?” He gave her a curt, mirthless laugh. How could a dying man make plans—when he must fight the secret agents and spatial fleets of an unknown planet, with such a dubious ally as this perplexing girl, to gain a goal that practical men called quixotic?
But he stopped the laugh and drew his shoulders straight.
“I left a ship on the emergency field,” he told her quietly. “And there’s condulloy enough in my uncle’s hoard on the Tor. Perhaps you can help me get it?”
Her eyes widened slowly.
“Piracy?” she whispered.
“Get out if you like.” He slowed the car. “But that metal was bought for the Freedonia plant. I’m going after it.”
Her level eyes looked at him hard.
“Drive on, Mr. Jenkins,” she said softly. “We’ve got a war to stop.”
TO BE CONCLUDED
Seetee Shock
Concluding a tale of strangely mixed loyalties of men pulled three ways by opposing motives—and the deadly threat of seetee—contraterrene matter that must be used, either as a weapon or a power for good—
Synopsis:
Nick Jenkins, spatial engineer, was out in space on the seetee bull—a fission-powered machine designed to prospect and mine the untouchable contraterrene meteor-drift—when the photophone beacon on Freedonia went out, leaving him lost in a deadly swarm of seetee fragments.
Cosmic debris of the seetee Invader which collided, ages ago, with the trans-Martian terrene planet Adonis, the contraterrene drift is matter inside out, with negative nuclei and orbital positrons. Unlike charges cancel out when it touches ordinary terrene matter, releasing a thousand times the energy of atomic fission.
The power laboratory on the airless asteroid Freedonia was first established by the old asterite engineer, Jim Drake, to tame the unimaginable violence of that reaction, for useful power. Drake was bankrupt and in legal difficulties, however, when Martin Brand founded the great Seetee Corporation, to finance him.
Now a successful expert at what he calls politico-financial engineering, Brand—the uncle of Jenkins—is also a gifted spatial engineer. His first great invention was the Brand transmitter, which could broadcast unlimited free power from the seetee generator on Freedonia to all the planets.
But that mighty power plant on Freedonia is still unfinished—and Martin Brand’s old, idealistic dream of a Fifth Freedom of power has become a pawn of interplanetary jealousies, with Brand himself turned cynical toward it by the bitterness of his early defeats.
The four major planets are waging a cautious cold war for supremacy. The vast arena of their struggle is the High Space Mandate, a political device set up after the Spatial War to rule the asteroids and referee the division of the old terrene power metals, uranium and thorium.
All the planets fear the impact of seetee power, as an overwhelming threat to the status quo. The notion of the Fifth Freedom appears disturbingly radical. All, however, are engaged in a desperate race to turn uneasy stalemate into decisive victory with the first use of seetee weapons.
Martin Brand had persuaded Drake to develop self-guided missiles with seetee war heads, to protect the precious installations on Freedonia from attack by the major planets. Lazarene, an able Earth-born engineer, was in charge of the secret arsenal.
Lost when the beacon went out, Nick Jenkins groped his way out of the swarm of untouchable meteors and back to the plant on Freedonia, Landing the bull, he found all the staff of engineers, except one man, fallen mysteriously unconscious, and the seetee arsenal looted.
The missing man was Jean Lasarene, who has apparently betrayed the priceless secrets of Freedonia to agents of one of the intriguing rival planets. The drug ametine hydrate, developed to slow the metabolism of space-disaster victims, was used to overcome the loyal engineers. The traitor escaped in an unidentified craft, which fired a seetee shot at the rock to stop pursuit.
While that superatomic explosion did little visible damage to the iron planetoid, the multibillion-electron-volt photons released caused intense secondary radiations, which reached Jenkins and all the unconscious men. Deadly radioactive isotopes were also formed in the rock itself.
Bringing the disabled men to the radiation clinic on the asteroid Obania, Jenkins learned from the specialist, Worringer, that all had suffered radiation burns of the fifth degree—which means death after eight to twelve days.
Jenkins alone was offered a slender chance at life, if he would stay at the clinic for treatment. He declined, however—deciding to use his few remaining days of actiznty for a desperate effort to complete the transmitter, before the planets are plunged into spatial war.
The creative power of seetee—the Fifth Freedom—offers, he feels, the only hope of peace. Free power from Freedonia, he hopes, can remove the causes of the impending conflict.
Leaving his fellow engineers deep in the coma of ametine and dying of radiation sickness, Jenkins went on to Pallasport, capital of the Mandate and home office of Seetee, to get the condulloy he needs to complete the transmitter.
Martin Brand has already purchased hundreds of tons of that costly superconductor—and hidden it in a vault under his princely estate, Terr an Tor. In a painful intervieiv, Jenkins discovers that his once-ideaiistic uncle has become a ruthless predator, who has been operating Seetee as a monstrous swindle.
While the few remaining days of Jenkins slip away, spatial war breaks out. An unidentified force fires seetee missiles at installations of the High Space Guard. As panic grips the Mandate, Jenkins and his uncle arc both arrested—for the Mandate government suspects that
the missiles came from Freedonia.
Jenkins fails in an effort to identify the attacking power—for each of the rival planets attempts to employ him to manufacture seetee weapons to use against the attacker, and thus each seems to be eliminated.
Martin Brand is quickly freed, through the efforts of his shrewd little lawyer, Adam Cast. But Jenkins stays in jail, in the midst of the war, until an enigmatic girl from Earth arranges his bail and spirits him hastily away from the government buildings in a car.
The girl is Jane Hardin, whom he had met when he first came to space, on the liner from Panama City. Attracted by her, he yet mistrusts her motives because she has been employed by his uncle. She offers now, with an apparent brave generosity, to help him complete the Brand transmitter.
“Drive on, Mr. Jenkins,” she urges him. “We’ve got a war to stop.”
PART 3
XV
Half savage sunlight on knife-edged crags and half midnight shadow, the cruel face of Pallas seemed to tip against them as Jenkins drove up the twisting road from the terraformed hill, until the upended landscape became a forbidding barrier ahead.
That narrow, giddy road was deserted now, but a uniformed guard stopped them at the edge of the emergency field. Jenkins showed the gray passes, and bleak hostility thawed to reluctant respect.
“Right, sir,” the sentry said. “Drive on.”
They parked outside the walled safety-well where Jenkins had left the ray-poisoned tug. He sat a moment in the car, frowning doubtfully at the lean-cheeked loveliness of Jane Hardin. His jaw set hard, as he hold her:
“I want to show you something.”
Inside the crooked alley of the radiation trap, he caught her arm to stop her, nodding grimly at the sign posted at the air lock of the rusty, square-hulled Good-by Jane.
CONTAMINATED CRAFT
Dangerous Radiations
Don’t Approach!
“See that?” He studied her taut face.
Whatever her game was, he thought warily, this ought to show it up. Whatever she wanted, it wouldn’t be death. Even if the geigers didn’t show a deadly degree of residual activity, she wouldn’t want her bright hair falling out or horny blemishes growing on her fine skin. She must hope to have children, sometime, and she wouldn’t want them monsters.
“I see.”
She didn’t even pause to glance at the little geiger, on her wrist, whose irregular flashes became a greenish flicker as she moved on toward the isotope-poisoned metal of the ship.
“I see it, Nick,” she whispered, “but we’re going to start the Brand transmitter.”
Her lips were pale and quivering, her eyes violet with dread. She understood the sign. But she caught his arm, with a wan comradely smile, and came on toward the valves. If she were really playing any secret game, it must be more important than her life.
The battered tug dropped them, ten minutes later, toward the costly lawns and splendid roofs of Terran Tor, a glow of green and a golden glint on the rounded summit of a stark black mountain. Sitting at the hooded periscope in the pilothouse, Jenkins saw the gleam of a tall silver needle beside the mansion on the Tor. His breath caught sharply. “What’s wrong, Nick?”
“I see the Adonis.”
“So your uncle is on hand, to guard his stolen condulloy.” She nodded soberly. “And his asterite followers are loyal, Nick,” she warned. “Don Martin is the beloved patron of little Nuevo Jalisco, and those simple men would all die for him.” A note of challenge entered her voice. “How do you mean to take that treasure?”
“I don’t know.” Jenkins thrust his face back to the hooded lenses, busy landing the craft. “I was just wondering,” he added softly, “how my uncle would do it.”
He set the awkward-seeming little vessel down on the narrow field that topped the Tor, opened the lock, and presently descended the rusty accommodation steps. He walked very carefully, holding in one hand a small cylinder of white aluminum.
Before him, the Tor seemed a secluded haven of luxurious peace. The convex lawns were a tender green, and the low sun made glittering rainbows in sprays of priceless water. The purple walls had an opulent glitter, and the golden roofs were splendid against the violet spatial dark.
But the terraformed hill was a well-manned fortress. Waiting under the tug, gripping that bright cylinder with both careful hands, he found the mound of yellow roses which almost concealed a concrete gun turret. He saw the automatic rifle in the arms of the sentry pacing beside the tall Adonis. He discovered other black muzzles jutting from under the golden eaves.
“Nicky!”
Martin Brand called to him genially, striding out of the mansion. “So Adam Gast did get you out—”
“No.” Jenkins waited close to the meteor-scarred hull, holding the little cylinder. “He didn’t.”
“Anyhow, it’s quite a relief to see you safe, Nicky.” Brand came up smiling, mopping at his ruddy, raw-boned face with a huge purple handkerchief. “It has been a ghastly day. Seetee Common dropped eighty-six points before the market closed, in spite of every trick in the book, and those asterite mobs broke half the windows in our building.”
He offered a hard, sweaty hand.
“And I was worried about you, Nicky.” His voice was husky with concern. “Those mobs would have killed you in a second, and Adam said you’d be safer in jail.” His gray eyes widened. “Nicky—what’s wrong?”
For Jenkins had ignored the offered hand. He stepped quickly back against the rusty springs and struts and hydraulic cylinders of the tug’s ground gear, carefully holding that small bright container. Brand peered at it sharply, rasping:
“What is that?”
“This is the reason you are going to return eighty tons of condulloy you bought for the Freedonia plant,” Jenkins told him quietly. “I want that metal, to finish the Brand transmitter.”
Martin Brand stepped back slightly, with a startled toss of his long dark hair. His angular, ruddy face was a study in outraged honor.
“Nicky!” he gasped. “Are you insane?”
Jenkins shook his head.
“I’m probably the sanest man in Mandate,” he insisted softly. “I’m going to start that transmitter, and end this seetee war.”
“Then you are crazy!”
“Have your men haul out that paragravity loading tube,” Jenkins told him grimly. “I want the ingots stacked in the lower hold. The tug’s contaminated, but I think a short exposure won’t hurt them much. Warn them to keep off the upper decks.”
Brand stood frowning, with an air of puzzled indignation.
“Nicky,” he began severely, “if this is your idea of a practical joke—”
“It isn’t.”
Incredulous anger flushed Brand’s rugged face.
“Then tell me why I should make you a gift of metal worth three hundred millions—”
“Not quite that.”
“Panic buying sent condulloy up today,” Brand said sharply. “It closed above four millions a ton—people want portable wealth. Why should I give you—?”
“That metal belongs to the Freedonia plant,” Jenkins said. “And here’s why you’ll give it back.” Carefully, he lifted and turned the small aluminum cylinder.
“What is that?” Brand snorted. “A can of tomatoes?”
“Don’t jar it,” Jenkins warned him. “It’s an ordinary aluminum can, evacuated and sealed. But the contents aren’t tomatoes.”
He beard the sharp catch of Brand’s breath.
“A simple device.” He turned it carefully, for Brand to see. “Being an engineer, you can understand that it’s a vast improvement over the old fission bombs.”
“Huh?”
“The can is lined with a heavy capsule of terrene iron,” he explained. “Inside the capsule is a half kilogram bar of native contraterrene nickel-iron.”
Watching the bland, ruddy mask of his uncle’s rawboned face, Jenkins saw it tighten.
“Don’t make me drop it,” he whispered softly. “The two elements are kept from contact only by a very weak surface field of permanent negative paragravity, inside the capsule. A very slight impact would be enough to drive the capsule against the seetee bar.”
He gave Brand a bleak little smile.
“So, you see, this small device is just about the equivalent of a one-ton plutonium bomb,” he added quietly. “It wouldn’t leave very much of the Tor.” He drew a long breath. “Your men can drag out that loading tube, right away—”
Brand shook his lean, distinguished-looking head, smiling regretfully.
“I’m disappointed in you, Nicky.” His suave voice turned eloquently scornful. “I’ve been wondering when you would turn your considerable engineering abilities to some goal more practical than my old chimera of the Fifth Freedom, but I was hardly prepared for this sudden change of character—from idealist to pirate!”
“Don’t talk so much,” Jenkins told him. “Just get that metal loaded.”
“Really, Nicky!” Brand smiled reprovingly. “Perhaps I can’t condemn your morals, but I should have hoped for more finesse in a kinsman—”
Jenkins wet his lips, peering hard at Brand.
“Do you want me to drop the bomb?”
“You won’t drop it, Nicky—not if it actually contains seetee.” Brand’s deep voice was almost jovial. “An ingenious invention, I grant—but your use of it is pathetically crude. If you had only let me teach you the elements of political and financial engineering, you wouldn’t be guilty of such monumental blunders.”
Jenkins tightened his clammy hands on the cylinder.
“You’re a young man, Nicky.” His uncle’s rawboned face shone with an honest, kindly sympathy.
“And your accomplice in this pathetic little plot is, I believe, a young and lovely girl—Adam Cast called on the private wire a few minutes ago, you see, to inform me that Jane Hardin had got you out of jail.”
“So?” Jenkins said.
“Don’t you see the flaw?” Brand beamed at him. “Two bright young people, with everything to live for—you won’t kill yourselves.”
“Oh!” Jenkins breathed again, smiling bitterly. “Call the Worringer Clinic, on Obania,” he said quietly. “Ask Worringer how long I’m going to live.”
Brand made a mute little gasp of pain.
“Nicky!” he whispered. “What do you mean?”
