Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (117 page)

Science fiction and radio were natural partners. The writers and directors were tasked with the necessity of effectively conveying often complex plot points to their listeners; but once they pulled that off, the unlimited special effects budget that resided in each of their listeners took over and did much of the important work. The opening narration of
X Minus One
promised the audience “adventures in which you’ll live a million could-be years on a thousand may-be worlds.” The best science fiction from radio’s Golden Age—whether aimed at children or adults—whether based on sound science or on fantasy—fulfilled this promise magnificently.

* * * *

Tim DeForest
lives in Sarasota, Florida, and is the circulation manager of the library at the Ringling College of Art and Design. He has written the books
Storytelling in the Pulps, Comics, and Radio
and
Radio by the Book
, as well as a number of articles on military history and the Wild West. He maintains blogs on pre-digital pop culture and old-time radio at comicsradio.blogspot.com and radioserials.blogspot.com.

(1895–1955)

A chemist, lawyer, and part-time writer, Nathaniel Schachner was best known for his biographies of American historical figures, but he also wrote prolifically for the pulps for about ten years, starting in 1930. He began publishing science fiction with “The Tower of Evil” (co-written with Arthur Leo Zagat) for
Wonder Stories Quarterly
in 1930. He wrote ten more stories with Zagat over the next year before writing on his own, both under his own name and as Chan Corbett and Walter Glamis. (Especially prolific authors often used several names as a way to have more than one story in the same issue of a magazine.) Although he wrote a number of longer pieces, only one of Schachner’s SF works appeared in book form, the novel
Space Lawyer
. That lack of reprinting outside of the pulps, combined with his short career and the genre’s movement away from the kind of adventure fiction he wrote, left him little-remembered for many years.

Schachner stopped writing science fiction around 1940 to focus on writing historical biographies. His best known nonfiction works at the time were the two-volume
Thomas Jefferson
,
Aaron Burr
, and
Alexander Hamilton, Nation Builder
. Ironically, with the advent of ebooks and print-on-demand publishing, Schachner’s science fiction is again widely available, but his historical writing is all-but-forgotten.

First published in
Astounding Stories
, May 1932

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 space-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-cushion 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 passageway 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 passengers 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 anticipation of an early landing in Callisto.

All were asleep, that is, but one. That brought Pemberton back to the problem of his mysterious assailant. 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 passenger list he was merely Dirk Halliday, an inconspicuous commercial traveler for Interspace 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 shifted with quick unwinking movements.

* * * *

But then, Pemberton had small use for the entire tribe of Ganymedans. Damned 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 lust of it.

That is, until an armada of Earth space-fliers had broken their power in one great battle. The stricken corsairs were compelled to disgorge their accumulations 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 ships, 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 space-fliers, traveling along regular traffic routes, have all vanished within the space of a month—passengers, crews and all. Not a trace of them can be found.”

“No radio reports, sir?”

“That’s the most curious part of the whole business. Everyone of the fliers was equipped with apparatus that could have raised the entire solar system with a call for help, and yet not the tiniest whisper was heard.”

* * * *

The Chief got up and paced the floor agitatedly. It was plain that this business was worrying him. Miro continued to sit calmly, seemingly indifferent. “It’s uncanny, I tell you. Gone as though empty space had swallowed them up.”

“You’ve applied routine methods, of course,” Grant ventured.

“Of course,” the Chief waved it aside impatiently. “But we can’t discover a thing. Battle fliers have patrolled the area without success. The last ship was literally snatched away right under the nose of a convoy. One minute it was in radio communication, and the next—whiff—it was gone.”

“Where is this area you mention?” Already Pemberton’s razor-edged brain was at work on the problem.

“Within a radius of five million miles from Jupiter. We’ve naturally considered placing an embargo upon that territory, but that would mean cutting off all of the satellites from the rest of the system.”

Miro stirred. His smooth slurred voice rolled out.

“And my planet would suffer, my friend. Alas, it has already suffered too much.” He evoked a sigh from somewhere in the depths of his barrel chest, and tried to cast up his small red eyes.

Grant suffered too, a faint disgust. Damn his eyes, what business had an erstwhile pirate, not too recently reformed, being self-righteous?

“Miro thinks,” the Chief continued unheeding, “that the Callistans know more about this than they admit. He has a theory that Callisto is somehow gathering up these ships to use in a surprise attack against his own planet, Ganymede. He says Callisto has always hated them.”

“Damn good reason,” Grant said laconically.

* * * *

Miro’s lidless eyes flamed into sudden life. “And what do you mean by that, my friend?”

Pemberton replied calmly. “Simply that your people have harried and ravaged them for untold centuries. They were your nearest prey, you know.”

Miro sprang to his feet, his soft suction pads gripping the floor as though preparatory to a spring. Gone was the sanctimonious unction of his former behavior; the ruthless savage glared out of the red eyes, the flattened fingers were twisting and curling.

“You beastly Earthling,” he cried in a voice choked with rage, “I’ll—”

The Chief intervened swiftly. “Here, none of that,” he said sharply to Miro. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret later.” Then he turned to Grant, who was steadily holding his ground: “There was no reason, Pemberton, to insult an inspector of the Service. Consider yourself reprimanded.” But the edge of the rebuke was taken off by the slight twinkle in the Chief’s eye.

Somehow a truce was patched up. Grant was to ship as an ordinary passenger on the
Althea
, the great passenger liner that plied between Callisto and the Earth. It was not his duty to prevent the disappearance of the vessel, the Chief insisted, but to endeavor to discover the cause. It was up to Grant then to escape, if he could, and to report to Miro on Ganymede immediately with his findings. Miro was leaving by his private Service flier at once for Ganymede, to await him. Grant thought he saw a faint sardonic gleam in the Inspector’s eyes at that, but paid no particular heed to it at the time.

* * * *

Now, as Grant stood in the corridor of the great space-flier, listening intently for further sounds from his hidden foe, it flashed on him. Miro knew he was on board. It was a Ganymedan who had treacherously attacked him. The puzzle was slowly fitting its pieces together. But the major piece still eluded him. What would happen to the ship?

As he turned to go back to his room, a ripping, tearing, grinding sound came to his startled ears. It was followed by a sudden swishing noise. Grant knew what that meant. A meteor had ripped into the vitals of the space-flier, and the precious air was rushing through the fissure into outer space. He whirled without an instant’s hesitation and sprang down the long corridor toward the captain’s quarters. If caught in time, the hole could be plugged.

Even as he ran, there was another grinding smash, then another, and another. Good Lord, they must have headed right into a meteor shower. Panels were sliding open, and people, scantily attired, thrust startled heads out into the corridor. Someone called after him, but he did not heed or stop his headlong race. He must get to the control room at once.

Already the air in the corridor was a sucking whirlpool that beat and eddied about him in its mad rush to escape. It sounded like the drumbeat of unsilenced exploders. A meteor shower of unprecedented proportions! In the back of Grant’s mind as he ran, hammered a thought. Every swarm of meteors in the solar system was carefully plotted. The lanes of travel were routed to avoid them. There was no known shower in this particular area!

He collided violently with a strange ungainly figure. In his desperate haste he did not give much heed, but tried to push his way past. The figure turned on him, and then Grant stopped short, an exclamation frozen to his lips. Red unwinking eyes stared out at him from goggles set in a helmet. The body was completely inclosed in lusterless creatoid. It was a Ganymedan in a space-suit!

* * * *

Grant saw the quick movement of the other toward an open side flap. He did not hesitate an instant. His fist shot out and caught the Ganymedan flush in the throat, while his left hand simultaneously seized the creatoid-covered arm that gripped a pencil-ray. The helmeted head went back with a sickening thud. But the Ganymedan was a powerful brute. Even as he staggered back from the force of the blow, vainly trying to release the pencil-ray for action, his right foot jerked forward. The next moment both were rolling on the floor, twisting and heaving in silent combat. Frightened passengers rushed down the corridor, screaming with terror, half carried along by the hurricane wind, clambering over the combatants in an insane desire to get away, where, they knew not; and still neither relaxed his grip, seeking a mortal hold.

Pemberton was certain that his silent unknown foe held the clue to the mystery he was trying to fathom. He fought on, silently, grimly. The cold creatoid fabric was slippery, but a sudden jerk of an arm, a certain quick twist that Grant was familiar with, and his enemy went limp. Grant’s breath was coming in quick, labored gasps. There was very little air left now. But he did not care. He tugged at the fastenings on the helmet. He must see who his captive was, wrest from him the heart of the mystery.

There came a clatter of feet behind him, a sudden rush of space-suited figures that overwhelmed and passed over him with trampling strides. He was torn loose from his prey, rolled over and over, gasping for air. When he staggered to his feet again, bruised and shaken, the corridor was swept clean of figures. His assailants had carried his opponent away with them.

A wild surge of anger swept through him. More Ganymedans, these rescuers, all accoutered for airless space. They had been carefully prepared for this. Heedless of all else, he swayed groggily after them, intent only on joining battle once again. The illumination was dim now, the cries of fear that had rung through the ship were gone; only a deathly silence reigned now. His lungs were burning for want of air; even the whirlwind had died down for lack of fuel. But still he kept on, like a bloodhound on the trail.

* * * *

He rounded a corner. A slight figure, swaying like a reed, collided with him and would have fallen if he had not thrust out a supporting arm. It was a girl. Even in the shadowy light he saw that she was beautiful. Her delicately molded features were drained white, but her deep pooled eyes were level in their gaze, unafraid.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, finding utterance labored, “Are you hurt?”

“Quite all right,” she said, with a wan smile, “if only I had some air to breathe.”

The essential bravery of her touched him. He forgot all about the escaped Ganymedans.

“We’ll have to try some other portion of the ship. Maybe some of the bulkheads are uninjured.”

She shook her head. “I just saw the captain,” she enunciated faintly. “Every bulkhead is riddled. Said—I—should get space-suit—in stateroom—though no use—doomed. Something wrong—wireless—not working.…” Her voice trailed. She had fainted.

Grant caught up her slight form and lurched unsteadily into the nearest cabin. The blood was roaring in his ears now, his heart was pumping madly, but he forced himself on. His eyes strained toward the compartment where the emergency space-suit was neatly compacted. Thank God. It was still there. The inmate had evidently rushed out at the first alarm to join the terror-maddened crush.

Pemberton worked with feverish haste. Somehow he thrust the unconscious girl into the suit, tightened the helmet into position, opened the valve that started the steady measured flow of life-giving oxygen. Then, with dark spots dancing before his eyes, he deposited her gently on the floor, and managed to force himself in the now almost total darkness toward another room.

* * * *

His swelling hands fumbled. The compartment was empty. Despairing, conscious only of a desire to lie down, to rest, he tried another. It, too, was empty. He stumbled over sprawled bodies, fell, managed to get up again. Again he fumbled into a compartment. The clammy feel of the creatoid never was more welcome. His breath was coming in whistling gasps. It seemed ages of strangulation before the first cool rush of oxygen expanded his tortured lungs. For a full minute he stood there, inhaling deep draughts. Then once more he was himself, his brain functioning with keen clarity.