Part 1 (1/2)
Pirates of the Gorm.
by Nat Schachner.
Grant Pemberton sat up suddenly in his berth, every sense straining and alert. What was it that had awakened him in the deathly stillness of the s.p.a.ce-flier? His right hand slid under the pillow and clutched the handle of his gun. Its firm coolness was a comforting reality.
There it was again. A tiny scratching on the door as though someone was fumbling for the slide-switch. Very quietly he sat, waiting, his finger poised against the trigger. Suddenly the scratching ceased, and the panel moved slowly open. A thin oblong patch glimmered in the light of the corridor beyond. Grant tensed grimly.
A hand moved slowly around the slit--a hand that held a pencil-ray.
Even in the dim illumination, Grant noted the queer spatulate fingers.
A Ganymedan! In the entire solar system only they had those strange appendages.
Pemberton catapulted out of his berth like a flash. Not a moment too soon, either. A pale blue beam slithered across the blackness, impinged upon the pillow where his head had lain only a moment before.
The air-cus.h.i.+on disintegrated into smoldering dust. Grant's weapon spat viciously. A hail of tiny bullets rattled against the panel, and exploded, each in a puffball of flame.
But it was too late. Already the unknown enemy was running swiftly down the corridor, the sucking patter of his feet giving more evidence of his Ganymedan origin. Pemberton sprang to the door, thrust it open just in time to see a dark shape disappearing around a bend in the corridor. There was no use of pursuit; the pa.s.sageway ended in a spray of smaller corridors, from which ambush would be absurdly easy.
HE glanced swiftly around. The corridor was empty, silent in the dim, diffused light. The motley pa.s.sengers were all sound asleep; no one had been disturbed by the fracas. Earthmen, green-faced Martians, fish-scaled Venusians, spatulate Ganymedans and homeward-bound Callistans, all reposing through the sleep-period in antic.i.p.ation of an early landing in Callisto.
All were asleep, that is, but one. That brought Pemberton back to the problem of his mysterious a.s.sailant. Why had this Ganymedan tried to whiff him out of existence? Grant frowned. No one on board knew of his mission, not even the captain. On the pa.s.senger list he was merely Dirk Halliday, an inconspicuous commercial traveler for Inters.p.a.ce Products. Yet someone had manifestly penetrated his disguise and was eager to remove him from the path of whatever deviltry was up. Who?
Grant gave a little start, then swore softly. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it before! The scene came back to him, complete in every detail, as though he were once more back on Earth, in the small, simply furnished office of the Interplanetary Secret Service.
The Chief of the Service was glancing up at him keenly. Beside him was a tall, powerfully shouldered Ganymedan, Miro, Inspector for Ganymede.
Grant looked at him with a faint distaste as he sat there, drumming on the arm of his chair with his spatulate fingers, his soft-suction padded hoofs curled queerly under the seat. There was something furtive, too, about the red lidless eyes that s.h.i.+fted with quick unwinking movements.
But then, Pemberton had small use for the entire tribe of Ganymedans.
d.a.m.ned pirates, that's all they were. It was not many years back since they had been the scourge of the solar system, harrying spatial commerce with their swift piratical fliers, burning and slaying for the mere l.u.s.t of it.
That is, until an armada of Earth s.p.a.ce-fliers had broken their power in one great battle. The stricken corsairs were compelled to disgorge their acc.u.mulations of plunder, give up all their fliers and armament, and above all, the import of metals was forbidden them. For, strangely enough, none of the metallic elements was to be found on Ganymede. All their weapons, all their s.h.i.+ps, were forged of metals from the other planets.
It was now five years since Ganymede had been admitted once again to the Planetary League, after suitable declarations of repentance. But the prohibitions still held. And Grant placed small faith in the sincerity of the repentance.
The Chief was speaking.
”We've called you in--Miro and I,” he said, in his usual swift, staccato manner, ”because we've agreed that you are the best man in the Service to handle the mission we have in mind.”
Grant said nothing.
”It's a particularly dangerous affair,” the Chief continued. ”Five great s.p.a.ce-fliers, traveling along regular traffic routes, have all vanished within the s.p.a.ce of a month--pa.s.sengers, crews and all. Not a trace of them can be found.”
”No radio reports, sir?”