Masters of the Vortex by E. E. Smith - HTML preview

Chapter 5
 ______THE BONEHEADS

SINCE BECOMING the Vortex Blaster, Neal Cloud lived alone. Whenever he decently could, he traveled alone and worked alone. He was alone now, hurtling through a barren region of space toward Rift Seventy One and the vortex next upon his list. In the interests of solitude, convenience, and efficiency he was now driving a scout-class ship which had been converted to one-man and automatic operation. In one hold was his vortex-blasting flitter; in the others his duodec bombs and other supplies.

During such periods of inaction as this, he was wont to think flagellantly of Jo and the three kids; especially of Jo. Now, however, and much to his surprise and chagrin, the pictures which had been so vividly clear were beginning to fade. Unless he concentrated consciously, his thoughts strayed elsewhere: to the last meeting of the Society; to the new speculations as to the why and how of supernovae; to food; to bowling—maybe he’d better start that again, to see if he couldn’t make his hook roll smoothly into the one-two pocket instead of getting so many seven-ten splits. Back to food—for the first time in the Vortex Blaster’s career he was really hungry.

Which buttons would he push for supper? Steak and Venerian mushrooms would be mighty good. So would fried ham and eggs, or high-pressured gameliope. . . .

An alarm bell jangled, rupturing the silence; a warm-blooded oxygen-breather’s distress call, pitifully weak, was coming in. It would have to be weak, Cloud reflected, as he tuned it in as sharply as he could; he was a good eighty five parsecs—at least an hour at maximum blast—away from the nearest charted traffic lane. It was getting stronger. It hadn’t just started, then; he had just gotten into its range. He acknowledged, swung his little ship’s needle nose into the line and slammed on full drive. He had not gone far on the new course, however, when a tiny but brilliant flash of light showed on his plate and the distress-call stopped. Whatever had occurred was history.

Cloud had to investigate, of course. Both written and unwritten laws are adamant that every such call must be heeded by any warm-blooded oxygen-breather receiving it, of whatever race or class or tonnage or upon whatever mission bound. He broadcast call after call of his own. No reply. He was probably the only being in space who had been within range.

Still driving at max, he went to the rack and pulled down a chart. He had never been in on a space emergency before, but he knew the routine. No use to investigate the wreckage; the brilliance of the flare was evidence enough that the vessel and everything near it had ceased to exist. It was lifeboats he was after. They were supposed to stick around to be rescued, but out here they wouldn’t. They’d have to head for the nearest planet, to be sure of air. Air was far more important than either food or water; and lifeboats, by the very nature of things, could not carry enough air.

Thus he steered more toward the nearest T-T (Tellus-Type) planet than toward the scene of disaster. He put his communicators, both sending and receiving, on automatic, then sat down at the detector panel. There might not be anything on the visuals or the audio. There had been many cases of boats, jammed with women and children, being launched into space with no one aboard able to operate even a communicator. If any lifeboats had gotten away from the catastrophe, his detectors would find them.

There was one; one only. It was close to the planet, almost into atmosphere. Cloud aimed a solid communicator beam. Still no answer. Either the boat’s communicator was smashed or nobody aboard could run it. He’d have to follow them down to the ground.

But what was that? Another boat on the plate? Not a lifeboat—too big—but not big enough to be a ship. Coming out from the planet, apparently . . . to rescue? No—what the hell? The lug was beaming the lifeboat!

“Let’s go, you sheet-iron lummox!” the Blaster yelled aloud, kicking in his every remaining dyne of drive. Then, very shortly, his plate came suddenly to life. To semi-life, rather, for the video was blurred and blotchy; the audio full of breaks and noise. The lifeboat’s pilot was a Chickladorian; characteristically pink except for red-matted hair and red-streamed face. He was in bad shape.

“Whoever it is that’s been trying to raise me, snap it up!” the pink man said in “Spaceal,” the lingua franca of deep space. “I couldn’t answer until I faked up this jury rig. The ape’s aboard and he means business. I’m going to black out, I think, but I’ve undogged the locks. Take over, pal!”

The picture blurred, vanished. The voice stopped. Cloud swore, viciously.

* * * * *

The planet Dhil and its enormous satellite Lune are almost twin worlds, revolving around their common center of gravity and traversing as one the second orbit of their sun. In the third orbit revolves Nhal, a planet strikingly similar to Dhil in every respect of gravity, atmosphere, and climate. Thus Dhilians and Nhalians are, to intents and purposes, identical.[1]

The two races had been at war with each other, most of the time, for centuries; and practically all of that warfare had been waged upon luckless Lune. Each race was well advanced in science. Each had atomic power, offensive beams, and defensive screens. Neither had any degree of inertialessness. Neither had ever heard of Civilization or of Boskonia.

At this particular time peace existed, but only on the surface. Any discovery or development giving either side an advantage would rekindle the conflagration without hesitation or warning.

Such was the condition obtaining when Darjeeb of Nhal blasted his little space-ship upward from Lune. He was glowing with pride of accomplishment, suffused with self-esteem. Not only had he touched off an inextinguishable atomic flame exactly where it would do the most good, but also, as a crowning achievement, he had captured Luda of Dhil. Luda herself; the coldest, hardest, most efficient Minister of War that Dhil had ever had!

As soon as they could extract certain data from Luda’s mind, they could take Lune in short order. With Lune solidly theirs, they could bomb Dhil into submission in two years. The goal of many generations would have been reached. He, Darjeeb of Nhal, would have wealth, fame, and—best of all—power!

Gazing gloatingly at his captive with every eye he could bring to bear, Darjeeb strolled over to inspect again her chains and manacles. Let her radiate! No mentality in existence could break his blocks. Physically, however, she had to be watched. The irons were strong; but so was Luda. If she could break free he’d probably have to shoot her, which would be a very bad thing indeed. She hadn’t caved in yet, but she would. When he got her to Nhal, where proper measures could be taken, she’d give up every scrap of knowledge she had ever had!

The chains were holding, all eight of them, and Darjeeb kept on gloating as he backed toward his control station. To him Luda’s shape was normal enough, since his own was the same, but in the sight of any Tellurian she would have been more than a little queer.

The lower part of her body was somewhat like that of a small elephant; one weighing perhaps four hundred pounds. The skin, however, was clear and fine and delicately tanned; there were no ears or tusks; the neck was longer. The trunk was shorter, divided at the tip to form a highly capable hand; and between the somewhat protuberant eyes of this “feeding” head there thrust out a boldly Roman, startlingly human nose. The brain in this head was very small, being concerned only with matters of food.

Above this not-too-unbelievable body, however, there was nothing familiar to us of Tellus. Instead of a back there were two pairs of mighty shoulders, from which sprang four tremendous arms, each like the trunk except longer and much stronger. Surmounting those massive shoulders there was an armored, slightly retractile neck which bore the heavily-armored “thinking” head. In this head there were no mouths, no nostrils. The four equally-spaced pairs of eyes were protected by heavy ridges and plates; the entire head, except for its junction with the neck, was solidly sheathed with bare, hard, thick, tough bone.

Darjeeb’s amazing head shone a clean-scrubbed white. But Luda’s—the eternal feminine!—was really something to look at. It had been sanded, buffed, and polished. It had been inlaid with bars and strips and scrolls of variously-colored metals; then decorated tastefully in red and green and blue and black enamel; then, to cap the climax, lacquered!

But that was old stuff to Darjeeb; all he cared about was the tightness of the chains immobilizing Luda’s hands and feet. Seeing that they were all tight, he returned his attention to his visiplates; for he was not yet in the clear. Enemies might be blasting off after him any minute.

A light flashed upon his detector panel. Behind him everything was clear. Nothing was coming from Dhil. Ah, there it was, coming in from open space. But nothing could move that fast! A space-ship of some kind . . . Gods of the Ancients, how it was coming!

As a matter of fact the lifeboat was coming in at less than one light; the merest crawl, as space-speeds go. That velocity, however, was so utterly beyond anything known to his system that the usually phlematic Nhalian stood spellbound for a fraction of a second. Then he drove a hand toward a control. Too late—before the hand had covered half the distance the incomprehensibly fast ship struck his own without impact, jar, or shock.

Both vessels should have been blasted to atoms; but there the stranger was, poised motionless beside him. Then, under the urge of a ridiculously tiny jet of flame, she leaped away; covering miles in an instant. Then something equally fantastic happened. She drifted heavily backward, against the full force of her driving blasts!

Only one explanation was possible—inertialessness! What a weapon! With that and Luda—even without Luda—the solar system would be his. No longer was it a question of Nhal conquering Dhil. He himself would become the dictator, not only of Nhal and Dhil and Lune, but also of all other worlds within reach. That vessel and its secrets must be his!

He blasted, then, to match the inert velocity of the smaller craft, and as his ship approached the other he reached out both telepathically—he could neither speak nor hear—and with a spy-ray to determine the most feasible method of taking over this Godsend.

Bipeds! Peculiar little beasts—repulsive. Only two arms and eyes—only one head. Weak, no weapons—good! Couldn’t any of them communicate? Ah yes, there was one—an unusually thin, reed-like creature, bundled up in layer upon layer of fabric. . . .

“I see that you are survivors of a catastrophe in outer space,” Darjeeb began. He correlated instantly, if not sympathetically, the smashed panel and the pilot’s bleeding head. If the creature had had a head worthy of the name, it could have wrecked a dozen such frailties with it, and without taking hurt. “Tell your pilot to let me in, so that I may guide you to safety. Hurry! Those will come at any moment who will destroy us all without warning or palaver.”

“I am trying, sir, but I cannot get through to him direct. It will take a few moments.” The strange telepathist began to make motions with her peculiar arms, hands, and fingers. Others of the outlanders brandished various repulsive members and gesticulated with ridiculous mouths. Finally:

“He says he would rather not,” the interpreter reported. “He asks you to go ahead. He will follow you down.”

“Impossible. We cannot land upon this world or its primary, Dhil,” Darjeeb argued, reasonably. “These people are enemies—savages—I have just escaped from them. It is death to attempt to land anywhere in this system except on my own world Nhal—that bluish one over there.”

“Very well, we’ll see you there. We’re just about out of air, but we can travel that far.”

But that wouldn’t do, either, of course. Argument took too much time. He’d have to use force, and he’d better call for help. He hurled mental orders to a henchman, threw out his magnetic grapples, and turned on a broad, low-powered beam.

“Open up or die,” he ordered. “I do not want to blast you open, but time presses and I will if I must.”

Pure heat is hard to take. The portal opened and Darjeeb, after donning armor and checking his ray-guns, picked Luda up and swung nonchalantly out into space. Luda was tough—a little vacuum wouldn’t hurt her much. Inside the lifeboat, he tossed his captive into a corner and strode toward the pilot.

“I want to know right now what it is that makes this ship to be without inertia!” Darjeeb radiated, harshly. He had been probing vainly at the pink thing’s mind-block. “Tell your pilot to tell me or I will squeeze it out of his brain.”

As the order was being translated he slipped an arm out of his suit and clamped a huge hand around the pilot’s head. But just as he made contact, before he put on any pressure at all, the weakling fainted.

Also, two of his senses registered disquieting tidings. He received, as plainly as though it was intended for him, a welcome which the swaddled-up biped was radiating in delight to an unexpected visitor rushing into the compartment. He saw that that visitor, while it was also a biped, was not at all like the frightened and harmless creatures already cluttering the room. It was armed and armored, in complete readiness for strife even with Darjeeb of Nhal.

The bonehead swung his ready weapon—with his build there was no need, ever to turn—and pressed a stud. A searing lance of flame stabbed out. Passengers screamed and fled into whatever places of security were available.