The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
very good. Three, though, is clear over across the sun, and Two isn’t any too close for a space-suit flight—better than eighty million miles. Easy enough as far as distance goes—we’ve all made longer hops in our suits—but we’ll be open to detection for about fifteen minutes. Can’t be helped, though . here we are!”
“Going to land her free, huh?” vanBuskirk whistled. “What a chance!”
“It’d be a bigger one to take the time to land her inert. Her power will hold—I hope. We’ll inert her and match intrinsics with her when we come back—we’ll have more time then.”
The lifeboat stopped instantaneously, in a free landing, upon the uninhabited, desolate, rocky soil of the strange world. Without a word the two men leaped out, carrying fully packed knapsacks. A portable projector was then dragged out and its fierce beam directed into the base of the hill beside which they had come to earth. A cavern was quickly made, and while its glassy walls were still smoking hot the lifeboat was driven within it. With their DeLameters the two wayfarers then undercut the hill, so that a great slide of soil and rock obliterated every sign of the visit. Kinnison and vanBuskirk could find their vessel again, from their accurately-taken bearings; but, they hoped, no one else could.
Then, still without a word, the two adventurers flashed upward. The atmosphere of the planet, tenuous and cold though it was, nevertheless so sorely impeded their progress that minutes of precious time were required for the driving projectors of their suits to force them through its thin layer. Eventually, however, they were in interplanetary space and were flying at quadruple the speed of light. Then vanBuskirk spoke.
“Landing the boat, hiding it, and this trip are the danger spots. Heard anything yet?”
“No, and I don’t believe we will. I think probably we’ve lost them completely. Won’t know definitely, though, until after they catch the ship, and that won’t be for ten minutes yet. We’ll be landed by then.”
A world now loomed beneath them; a pleasant, Earthly-appearing world of scattered clouds, green forests, rolling plains, wooded and snow-capped mountain-ranges, and rolling oceans. Here and there were to be seen what looked like cities, but Kinnison gave them a wide berth; electing to land upon an open meadow in the shelter of a black and glassy cliff.
“Ah, just in time: they’re beginning to talk,” Kinnison announced. “Unimportant stuff yet, opening the ship and so on. I’ll relay the talk as nearly verbatim as possible when it gets interesting.” He fell silent, then went on in a sing-song tone, as though he were reciting from memory, which in effect he was:
“ ‘Captains of ships P4J263 and EQ69B47 calling Helmuth! We have stopped and have boarded the F47U596. Everything is in order and as deduced and reported by your observers. Everyone aboard is dead. They did not all die at the same time, but they all died from the effects of the collision. There is no trace of outside interference and all the personnel are accounted for.’
“ ‘Helmuth, speaking for Boskone. Your report is inconclusive. Search the ship minutely for tracks, prints, scratches. Note any missing supplies or misplaced items of equipment. Study carefully all mechanisms, particularly converters and communicators, for signs of tampering or dismantling.’
“Whew!” whistled Kinnison. “They’ll find where you took that communicator apart, Bus, just as sure as hell’s a man-trap!”
“No, they won’t,” declared vanBuskirk as positively. “I did it with rubber-nosed pliers, and if I left a scratch or a scar or a print on it I’ll eat it, tubes and all!”
A pause.
“ ‘We have studied everything most carefully, Oh Helmuth, and find no trace of tampering or visit.’
“Helmuth again: ‘Your report is still inconclusive. Whoever did what has been done is probably a Lensman, and certainly has brains. Give me the present recorded serial number of all port openings, and the exact number of times you have opened each port.’
“Ouch!” groaned Kinnison. “If that means what I think it does, all hell’s out for noon. Did you see any numbering recorders on those ports? I didn’t—of course neither of us thought of such a thing. Hold it—here comes some more stuff.
“ ‘Port-opening recorder serial numbers are as follows’ . . . don’t mean a thing to us . ‘we have opened the emergency inlet port once and the starboard main lock twice. No other port at all.’
“And here’s Helmuth again: ‘Ah, as I thought. The emergency port was opened once by outsiders, and the starboard cargo port twice. The Lensman came aboard, headed the ship toward Sol, took his lifeboat aboard, listened to us, and departed at his leisure. And this in the very midst of our fleet, the entire personnel of which was supposed to be looking for him! How supposedly intelligent spacemen could be guilty of such utter and indefensible stupidity .’ He’s tellin’ ’em plenty, Bus, but there’s no use repeating it. The tone can’t be reproduced, and it’s simply taking the hide right off their backs . here’s some more . ‘General broadcast! Ship F47U596 in its supposedly derelict condition flew from the point of destruction of the Patrol ship, on course .’ No use quoting, Bus, he’s simply giving directions for scouring our whole Line of flight . Fading out—they’re going on, or back. This outfit, of course, is good for only the closest kind of close-up work.”
“And we’re out of the frying pan into the fire, huh?”
“Oh, no; we’re a lot better off than we were. We’re on a planet and not using any power they can trace. Also, they’ve got to cover so much territory that they can’t comb it very fine, and that gives the rest of the fellows a break. Furthermore .”
A crushing weight descended upon his back, and the Patrolmen found themselves fighting for their lives. From the bare, supposedly evidently safe rack face of the cliff there had emerged rope-tentacled monstrosities in a ravenously attacking swarm. In the savage blasts of DeLameters hundreds of the gargoyle horde vanished in vivid flares of radiance, but on they came; by thousands and, it seemed, by millions. Eventually the batteries energizing the projectors became exhausted. Then flailing coil met shearing steel, fierce-driven parrot beaks clanged against space-tempered armor, bulbous heads pulped under hard-swung axes; but not for the fractional second necessary for inertialess flight could the two win clear. Then Kinnison sent out his SOS.
“A Lensman calling help! A Lensman calling help!” he broadcast with the full power of mind and Lens, and immediately a sharp, clear voice poured into his brain:
“Coming, wearer of the Lens! Coming at speed to the cliff of the Catlats. Hold until I come! I arrive in thirty .”
Thirty what? What possible intelligible relative measure of that unknown and unknowable concept, Time, can be conveyed by thought alone?
“Keep slugging, Bus!” Kinnison panted. “Help is on the way. A local cop—voice sounds like it could be a woman—will be here in thirty somethings. Don’t know whether it’s thirty minutes or thirty days; but we’ll still be there.”
“Maybe so and maybe not,” grunted the Dutchman. “Something’s coming besides help. Look up and see if you see what I think I do.”
Kinnison did so. Through the air from the top of the cliff there was hurtling downward toward them a veritable dragon: a nightmare’s horror of hideously reptilian head, of leathern wings, of viciously fanged jaws, of frightfully taloned feet, of multiple knotty arms, of long, sinuous, heavily-scaled serpent’s body. In fleeting glimpses through the writhing tentacles of his opponents Kinnison perceived little by little the full picture of that unbelievable monstrosity: and, accustomed as he was to the outlandish denizens of worlds scarcely known to man, his very senses reeled.
CHAPTER 5
Worsel to the Rescue
As the quasi-reptilian organism descended the