John Rackham

D-DAY ON SCARTA

"Hear this all units. The Supreme
Executive speaking. The planet is Scarta . . . You all know your targets. Five
major continents, six principal cities, one to each ship. The cities are to be
taken, subdued and held, with minimum damage. Out!"

And the invasion of Scarta in the
all-powerful name of the Space Empire of Zorgan was on. Everything went as
predicted. The cities were taken, there was no opposing spacefleet And yet
everything went wrong.

For Scarta was a planet different from any
other the arrogant Earthmen had invaded. Its peaceful people were tougher, its
unarmed cities more impregnable, and its blue skies less placid than any world
had any right to be. And the problems of THE DOUBLE INVADERS makes an
interplanetary novel that is one of the most cleverly unusual of them alL

Turn this book over for second complete novel

John
Rackham has also written:

WE,
THE VENUSIANS (M-127) DANGER FROM VEGA (G-576) THE BEASTS OF KOHL (G-592) TIME
TO LIVE (G-606)

THE DOUBLE INVADERS

by

JOHN RACKHAM

ACE
BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036

the double invaders

Copyright
©, 1967, by Ace Books, Inc. All Rights Reserved

Cover
art by Ermoyan

these savage futub1ans

Copyright
©, 1967, by Ace Books, Inc.

Printed
in the U.S.A.

PROLOGUE

Even the best
rule may have to be broken eventually. By the
time men of Earth had made cave-homes on Luna, pressurized bubble-cities on
Mars, and air-cooled dehumidified residences on Venus, a whole code of hard
rules had been made. By that time Man was no longer Earth-man, but Solarian,
and the Solarian Union was a seven billion strong free-wheeling federation of
every race, creed and color, managing to exist under a wide spectrum of
environmental conditions. The code was respected; it had to be. By that time
the spirit of adventure was not dead, merely a trifle subdued. When, with many
a falter and abortive attempt, Solarian Union ships began to cast wider,
stepping off into the big dark of interstellar space, the code went along.

Part
of it went "Thou shalt not interfere . . and was modified to mean,
"If you come across any planets already settled by an intelligent
life-form, lay off!" That rule was underlined by the tragic and
bloodstained history of Man's past, of the multitude of minor races and
cultures that had been defiled, diseased, and eventually destroyed by contact
with some "advanced" culture. So the watchword was "Ap

proach with caution; keep clear;
observe—first! If somebody already lives there, go on by."

Marching
alongside that rule was another, the product of hard-won maturity. Solarian
Man's leap into space was in no sense a prelude to conquest. At most it was a
technical achievement serving the oldest instinct of all: to see what was on
the other side. So every ship that stood off and warped into the big dark was
equipped with the finest and most efficient long-range snooping facilities
Solarian science could provide out of many centuries of experience in such
things. If a few nice new shiny planets could be found, vacant, there would be
colonists to follow. But Solarian Man was just that little bit too sensible,
now, to want to fight somebody else for living room.

Rules make sense only if they are known to
and respected by all parties involved. It happened that as S.U. ships leaped
further and further into the unknown the time came when they discovered Zorgan.
And Zorgan had a different set of rules entirely. The first ships to brush the
fringe of the expanding sway of Zorgan performed precisely as the code
directed. They kept discreet distance; they observed and recorded, studied and
understood. And then they came home with the news. They conveyed their own
shock and horror to the billions of the Solarian Union, who were equally
shocked and horrified. Out of the shock came urgency, and a decision. Certain
rules would have to be bent, even broken. There would have to be a plan. There
was—a plan that went against everything that had been so painfully learned. But
there was no other way.

"I
t's
a
pretty little planet,"
Otto Karsh remarked, not trying to make a point or contradict anyone else's,
just letting it go as a statement. He was the right-hand man of three who sat
in the super-control cell and studied the strategy-computer's recordings and
evaluations. Mike Swann, left-hand of the three, spared a moment from watching
figures to agree.

"Pretty now. It won't
be when we're done with it."

Between
them, Denzil Bragan sat silent, watching the displays, now and again turning
his dark eyes on the main-screen picture of the planet itself. If he heard
their comments, he gave no sign. At just the right angle he could see the
ghost-reflection of his own face in the glass window of an instrument-box where
moving fingers of infrared painted symbols on sensitive paper. A long-jawed,
lean, saturnine face, not designed to smile very readily; the face of a
hard-minded ruthless man. The face fitted his job, and he reminded himself,
again, that it was no more than that. A job that had to be done, pretty planet
or not. He said as much, dividing the comment indifferendy between his
colleagues.

"We have a job to do.
Nothing else matters."

"I
know it's a job." Karsh took him up stolidly, hunching his thick
shoulders. "Itll get done, but there's no law that says I have to like
it."

Bragan
let it go at that. At his back the critical-analysis elements of the computer
kept up an erratic dit-dit . . . dit-dit-dit
...
of activity as they swallowed, digested and regurgitated the last few
thousands of data-bits about the planet down there. It was not strictly
necessary to have the very last fractions of that information. There was more
than enough on the strategy board now for their purpose. They had a workable
picture. But they waited, just the same, for Bragan to give the word. And he
waited for the last dregs to come up, because this was an operation that had to
be done exactly by the book, like it or not.

On
Bragan's left, Swann stirred restlessly in his seat. "They are not going
to like it, down there, when we hit them. They are going to think the sky fell
in on them."

Bragan didn't even spare him a glance. Swann
was the youngest of the triad command, volatile, handsome in a flashy dark way,
an impulsive extrovert. He was the expedition's expert on manpower and
personnel, the trooper's angle on actions. Bragan said "Study your data,
mister."

"I
already have. So far as I'm concerned, it's all in. All right, so the computer
is still chewing out the tenth decimal places, but who needs it? We know
everything we need to take that planet—like that!" and he extended one
hand and curled the fingers into a fist.

This
is no time fox heroics, or stupid gestures. We will take the planet according
to the technique of Zorgan, modified by the computer in accordance with the
data as found. All the data." As if spurred by his words, the analyzer let
go with a burst of clicking, clanged completion, and fell silent. Bragan
scanned the final readings then sat more erect.

"That
appears to be satisfactory. Now for Stage Two." He reached for the general
address microphone, pushed a button for attention.

"Hear this, all units. Denzil Bragan,
Supreme Executive, speaking. Stage One is complete. I will summarize. The
planet is Scarta. It has one culture and one race who call themselves
Scartanni. We have had time to learn most of their folkways, values and habits.
You have all studied their language and can speak it. They appear to be a
peaceful people, with no weapons. They appear to pose us but little in the way
of threat or resistance. But, I remind you, we do not know
all
about them. We have rehearsed our strategy and plan of attack several
times and you are all familiar with it. But, I remind you again, there is much
we do not yet know. I warn you to be on the alert at all times, ready to
modify, to adjust, to adapt to novel situations. Keep your strategy-computers
fully operational at all times. Leave nothing to good fortune or chance."
He paused for effect, then went on. "You all know your targets. Five major
continents, six principal cities, one to each ship. The cities are to be taken,
subdued and held, with minimum damage, no unnecessary violence or killing, and
no heroics. This is a job of work. Unit Commanders take over and go when ready.
Out!" He moved a switch to connect him with the commander of the ship he
was in, and said, "It's all yours, Captain Slatt."

Then he sat well back in his chair and fell
to brooding over the situation, the broad picture. He knew it better than
anyone, and it was his job to coordinate the entire operation, and accept
responsibility for it. Swann was responsible for the troop-movements and
handling, Karsh for the technology and armament, but Bragan was the supreme
arbiter of all And he was not at all happy, although he would never have
admitted it, and his unease was no more than an intuition. In theory the
operation ought to go like a well-oiled wheel as the result of expert observation
and planning.

Scarta
had been diligently studied. The planet had no moon. It may have had one, a
long time back in its formative history, but now it had three loose globular
clusters of fragments, balls of rubble and dust spaced equilaterally in orbit
slightly less than a quarter of a million miles out from the surface. Linking
those glowing rock-aggregations was
a
broad semi-luminous band of fine dust like a ribbon of moonlight across
the sky. Hidden just beyond one of those clusters the six ships of the invader
had watched and listened to and studied Scarta until they had everything they
needed to know. Now, in his mind's eye, Bragan saw them move, to separate in
silence and begin the long spiraling drop down into the atmosphere, down to the
surface. Black, those ships were, black as the cold night they came from, with
neither insignia nor name, only a number.

Bragan's
ship, Unit One, was slightly larger than the rest simply because it had to
carry this chamber that was set aside for the triad of command, the men who
were ultimately responsible. Because Unit One was larger, and because it
carried the masterminds and was flagship, it had chosen for target the largest
city on Scarta, the city of Stopa. It was, Bragan mused, the planetary capital,
if there was such a thing on this planet. He caught at the qualification and
wondered about it, and about all the other little oddities their study had
turned up, about Scarta and its people. Spy-devices had seen, the computer had
recorded and shown, but it had offered no comment, nor rational explanation.
For six ships to plan and execute the coldblooded conquest of an entire and
nonoffensive planet, Bragan mused, was a hell of a nerve. But Zorgan
techniques, strategy, power and skill had done it before a hundred times and
more, with never a miss. Zorgan couldn't miss, because Zorgan was geared for
just about anything. For all its oddities, there was no chance that Scarta
would prove to be an exception.

Bragan tied the end of that train of thought,
took up another. He felt the first sway and surge of thrust and control as the
pilot juggled for an approach attitude. This ship was a fighting-machine from
the core on out, heavily armored and formidably armed. It held a hundred
highly-trained, trigger-fit fighting men, every one capable of being a deadly
menace on his own, or cooperating as one of a squad, as needed. As Swann had
said, the Scartanni would think the sky had fallen in on them. Still unhappy,
Bragan shifted to the long view, of the planet itself. It was a jewel in every
sense. The axial tilt was negligible, seasonal variation minor, the overall
climate close to ideal.

In a
flight of fancy he imagined himself standing down there looking up at the night
sky. No moon, but three glowing clouds of cool fire and a broad ribbon of
phosphorescence. It would be attractive for anyone with eyes to appreciate.
No near neighbors in the system. One small semi-molten lump close in to the
primary, and three gas-giants far out. But that night sky also mounted the
great red lamp of Betelgeuse, only thirty light-years away, and the hard blue
glare of Rigel two hundred and fifty lights further off. He thought, with that
kind of sky and nothing close at hand to offer temptation, those people down
there had never even begun to develop space-flight. A sudden squeeze of
deceleration made him grunt and sag into his chair and he wasted a futile
moment wishing that his own race had been similarly spared. It would have saved
a lot of trouble for everyone.

If
they had been so restricted, he mused, his people might have been driven in on
themselves to solve some of their more personal problems. By the surface
evidence the Scartanni had done it. A whole planet of people with only one
speech, one culture, one broad set of social values, with only minor variations
here and there. And nowhere in the vast hoard of data gathered so painstakingly
over the weeks was there so much as a sign of violence, conflict, rivalry or
war, not in speech, custom or attitude. That was one of the oddities for which
the computer had no solution to offer. Not
a
superstitious man, Bragan resisted the temptation to feel awed at such
perfection.
We,
he thought wryly,
are about to change all that, once and for
all!

The
ship was bouncing now, riding the gathering shock-waves of impact with the
atmosphere, and he abandoned his meditations and gave attention to the picture
on his screen. It shimmered with heatwaves as the tortured air screamed past.
The ship slid down and moved rapidly across a broad continent, running
delicately and with deliberate intent just within the dark fringe of dawn.
Over the shuddering and bouncing he felt a thud, and again, and a third, in
rapid succession.

On his left, Swann murmured, "There go
the gas-buckets now."

Peering, Bragan could just make out the fine
lines, and then the discreet and momentary blue glow as three large projectiles
exploded quietly and dispersed knockout gas into the prevailing wind. And
there, dead ahead now, was Stopa. Although it was the largest city Scarta had
to offer, it was not big in itself, and its population was little more than a
million people. This, too, was characteristic of the people. They didn't gather
into city-masses, or extensive conurbations. Nor did they seem to favor
anything in the way of industrial extension. From the data gathered in
preparation for the invasion, it seemed the Scartanni could put up a high
standard of manufacture, but they made only those things they had immediate
need for, and only as many as required. Not the other way around. The idea of
making things by mass and then trying to drum up a market for them had never
taken root here.

Bragan
remembered the long and trenchant discussions that litde item had provoked
among his staff. There were those, like Swann, who claimed it proved the
Scartanni simple and stupid, missing the good thing that was under their noses.
But others, like Karsh, maintained that this was the rational and logical thing
to do, and was evidence of intelligence. Bragan took neither side, nor did he
express an opinion. He merely noted and filed it away for some future time.

Now,
as the ship slid over Stopa, the pilot stood on his retrojets and threw in
multi-gauss braking fields to check the headlong flight and bring the ship
around in a swooping arc. Out went three more gas-charges, flooding the
sleeping city with invisible vapor. Keen eyes scanned the scene down there for
a suitable place to land. Bragan began to feel tension as the ship heeled,
rolled and went around, then zoomed down, neatly and efficiently, onto the
broad green expanse of a park-like area close to the center of the city.

In
the central control-room three pairs of eyes watched the brisk and workmanlike
behavior of their own ship, and gave a careful eye to the relayed information from
the other five. This was part of the pattern. The overall plan was definite,
but permitted minor variations, and all ships checked with each other so that
information and experience might be shared and multiplied. With a gentle jar
the ship sat down, and noises dwindled, changed, set up a new feel. Not wasting
a moment, the ramp-doors slid open and the troopers went out, by fives, leaving
one squad of five to keep the ship. There would be little or no opposition yet.
Dawn was half an hour away. Karsh swung his chair to study a profile and plan
of the city as the computer rendered it, amending and refining on long-distance
studies with the new data gathered on the run-in.

"That
looks like City Hall," he said; "that big gray-white oval building.
It's a natural for zero-reference." He took up a microphone and relayed
the suggestion to Captain Slatt. Now every man out there would be able to
locate himself precisely in his reports.

"This
part is simple," Swann declared, sitting back and watching the symbols
come up on the screen. "Four gas power stations, one transport H.Q., one
radio station, one water plant, two airfields, three major food-processing complexes,
three hospitals. . . ."

Bragan watched with only half his attention.
He knew what was happening. The troopers out there, each one encased in rugged
fiber-armor, aided by lift-jets, armed with an arsenal of weapons, and in
constant touch with the rest of his five, those men knew what to do, and were
doing it. Take, immobilize, put out of action, take the control-staff, take
hostages, take charge! And they did it. By the time the pearl-pink dawn had
come to tint the sky, Karsh could click his tongue and express satisfaction. Swann
had his own characteristic reaction.

"Smooth as a snake's
belly. No opposition at all!"

But
Bragan had his ear cocked to the Scartanni radio bands. These people had a
planetwide radio network that operated on a bunched-pulse F.M. system, a method
that had given the invaders considerable trouble to crack and listen to.
Instead of a continuous carrier-wave with superimposed modulations, their
transmitters fired a one-every-second burst of signal compressed into a
one-tenth second "beep" that didn't mean a thing unless and until you
had the receiving equipment to trap the signal packets and stretch them again.
Nor were they easy to trap, because there was no constant signal to give a
lead. As Bragan listened now there were calls coming in all over the bands. He
could catch names of villages and even place some of them on their spots on the
map. Feldeen, Petwin, Lettree, Gorset, Tarat, Illsine
. .
.
the whole northern half of
the continent was in a ferment.

"And they're all trying to talk to
Stopa," he muttered. "They get up early here." He moved
a
switch and asked the radioman to get him one station at random and hold
it. In a moment his loudspeaker made a bell-tone call-signal and
a
brisk female voice, carrying anxiety but nothing more, yet, said:

"Stopa
Central. This is Tarat calling Stopa Central. Are you hearing me?" Bragan
reached for the microphone that was linked in to the same band. The voice went
on. "Tarat to Stopa. We registered a large mass descending, to strike in
or close to your area, but have detected no impact. What news? Tarat to Stopa,
please reply, if you hear me."