Early Days: More Tales From the Pulp Era Read online

  Nita. Nita.

  Desperately, he transmitted to her the image of the leering guard, standing before them pondering which way of killing them would be the most delightful.

  Wake up, Nita. Wake up.

  He felt her mind coming back to full activity again. Oh, my head! And then—what’s going on?

  Rapidly he filled in the events up to the present moment. The entire interchange took but a microsecond.

  We’ve got to do something.

  Yes. Hold on tight, Nita’s mind said. There was something else, indistinct, half-concealed, that she had added. Was it—darling?

  Hammill reached toward her mind and they linked. It was not as effective nor as powerful a linkage as it would have been if focussed through the hsrorn, but their minds did blend to a degree of rapport.

  The guard took a step forward and lifted Nita’s head. “You’re a pretty one,” he said. She quivered imperceptibly at his rough, coarse touch. “Too pretty to kill, perhaps.”

  “You’d better not try that, Holmak,” warned the other guard. “If Lord Kleyne comes back and finds us—”

  “You’re right,” Holmak admitted. He unholstered his blaster. “We’d better make it quick after all.”

  All right, now, Nita said. Now! Push!

  A burst of energy sprang from their unaided minds and leaped toward the unsuspecting guards.

  “We’ve got them!” Hammill cried exultantly. The dizzied guards tottered unsteadily under the assault of the two minds, and Hammill sprang forward, happy to be able to end his long period of motionlessness.

  His fist crashed into the taller guard’s chin, snapping his head backward sharply. As he fell, Hammill turned his attention to the other, who was groping bewilderedly around the cabin.

  “I’m over here,” Hammill said happily. He collared the guard, slapped him a few times to clear his head, and then slammed him to the floor with a roundhouse right.

  “I think that’ll do it,” Hammill said. He picked up the two unconscious guards, dragging each by the scruff of his neck, and hauled them to the back of the tiny scoutship. “Tie them up,” he told Nita. “And get their blasters away.”

  He reached down, took a blaster from one of the holsters, and quickly sealed off the tube that held the ship to Kleyne’s.

  “We’re free of the other ship,” he said. “But now we’ve got to get out of here in a devil of a hurry. They won’t be expecting us to escape, and maybe we can get out of range of that traction beam of theirs.”

  “How’s the drive?” she asked.

  “It got pretty scrambled during the recent encounter. I don’t think the left field coil of the mass-time converter is going to give us enough push.”

  “We’ve got another way,” Nita said. “Even without the hsrorn. Give me your hand.”

  He nodded and approached her. It was the only way—and wouldn’t Kleyne be surprised when the little scoutship suddenly took off like a startled fawn, bursting to a thousand lights immediately from a standing start!

  Nita’s thought came into his brain, urging, pressing. Think of the ship moving, Laird! Faster! Faster!

  The scoutship shot off into the depths of space.

  Fleet Admiral Bronson, tall, lean and graying, looked bleak as he received the two fugitives in his cabin aboard the flagship Gifford. His battleship had been hit by two ray-blasts, and a torpedo had taken off part of the rear guide coils.

  Hammill and Nita stepped into his cabin; his hand was tightly clasping hers.

  The admiral’s eyes were cold. “We’ve lost, Captain Hammill. We—”

  Hammill knew immediately what was going on within the admiral’s mind. As far as the admiral was concerned, the failure of the Earth Federation Fleet was due entirely to Hammill’s failure as a spy on Denerix. It was an irrational decision on the admiral’s part; he had to blame someone, so he had blamed Hammill.

  The defeat of the Earth Fleet had weighed heavily on the admiral’s mind; though, ordinarily a just man, he had, in the past few hours, become bitter against those who had figured in the loss of the battle.

  “I don’t know who this woman is,” he said. “I presume she is a native of one of the local planets in this galaxy. You have—”

  A thought flashed from Nita to Hammill. Stop him!

  But Hammill’s mind had reacted even more rapidly than the girl’s. In a split second, he had taken control of the admiral’s mind.

  When the admiral finished his sentence, he said: “—done the fleet a great service. Do you have any ideas for beating the Starlords?”

  The speech was purely for the benefit of the officers who were watching. Under Hammill’s control, Fleet Admiral Bronson turned to his staff and said: “Captain Hammill knows this galaxy better than anyone else. I suggest we listen to his ideas.”

  Hammill felt all the bitterness of the admiral; he knew how every one of the officers felt. His mind had picked up every bit of the fear, the heroism, the panic, and the determination of these men.

  And yet, he knew that, in spite of their feelings, he, Laird Hammill, must take charge.

  A ripple of shock ran across the surface of Nita’s mind as she realized what Hammill intended to do. But it only lasted for a moment. Then she thought: “You’re right, Laird; it’s the only way.”

  “It is,” he thought. “It’s the only way.”

  Aloud, he said: “As I see it, we’ll have to use guerilla tactics. We’ll have reinforcements from Earth within a few days, but, until then, we must harass the enemy within their own borders. If we give them a chance to form a fleet, a really big fleet, we won’t stand a chance, ourselves.”

  At that instant, a deep, resonant voice sounded within Hammill’s mind.

  Nita and Hammill! What are your findings on the military preparations of the Starlords of Shanador?

  Instantly, Nita responded.

  They have some sort of screen.

  Hammill had recognized the mental voice as that of the linked and assembled minds of the Council of Rhodanas. It was obvious that none of the Earth officers in the flagship’s control room had heard a thing. Only Nita and himself could receive the mental communication from Rhodanas.

  What sort of screen?

  Rapidly, Nita explained what had happened when she had hurled a bolt of mental energy at the Shanadorian spaceships.

  We see, said the Council. It hardly seems worth worrying about, but we shall check. Meanwhile, we have information for you. Observers, inform them of what you have learned.

  The mental voice changed subtly, and Hammill recognized it as the voice of the Observers.

  We have been able to penetrate the screen.

  Hammill felt a sense of deep respect for the Rhodanan Observers. Nita had given them the characteristics of the Shanadorian thought screen, and within a small fraction of a second, they had analyzed that screen, penetrated it, and taken full account of what it had hidden.

  The Starlords are preparing an invasion in force, the Observers continued. Under the enforced leadership of Lord Kleyne, they have prepared an Armada of ships to blast Earth. Unless they are stopped, the Federation will be doomed.

  Quickly, Hammill fired a thought at the Observers.

  Will you help us?

  The answering voice was cold. We cannot. We will give you information, but we will not give you either physical or mental aid. That is our decision, and the decision of the Council at this time.

  Very well, Hammill said bitterly. We’ll do without your aid. What information do you have?

  Quickly, concisely, the Observers told them what had happened and was happening within the Galaxy of Shanador.

  So short a time had passed during the interchange of thought that the officers of the Gifford didn’t even notice the slight pause in Hammill’s voice. As though there had been no interruption whatever, Hammill continued.

  “I happen to know where every main base of the Shanadorian fleet is located.”

  “That’s almost unbelievable!” s
aid one Commander. “We have estimated that there are over three hundred thousand major bases in this star system!”

  “Three hundred thousand, four hundred and eighty-one, to be exact,” Hammill said coolly. “I know where they are located, which stars, which planets of those stars, and where the bases are on each planet. Earth’s only hope—and believe me when I say this—is for us to smash those bases!”

  The officers looked at each other and then looked at Admiral Bronson.

  Bronson, still under the mental control of Laird Hammill, said: “What do you think, gentlemen?”

  “Why can’t we wait for Earth’s reinforcements?” asked a Vice-Admiral.

  “They won’t be here for three days,” said the Fleet Admiral. “In that time, the Starlords’ fleet can take off and hit Earth, which will be unprotected. Neither this fleet nor our reinforcing fleet could get back to Earth, set up defenses, and fight a battle in time.” He glanced at each of them in turn. “We’ll have to do it as Hammill says.”

  Thirty-five thousand and eleven Terran ships—all that remained of an armada of nearly ninety thousand starships—fanned outward from their point of assembly, many thousand light-years from Shanador, and sprang forward for the attack.

  In the flagship Gifford, Laird Hammill paced uneasily back and forth as he watched the glittering suns of Shanador grow closer in the viewplate. This was virtually Earth’s last chance.

  If the Starlords beat back this attack, crushed the remnants of Earth’s armada before the reinforcements had a chance to arrive—it would mean Lord Kleyne’s unquestioned dominion over the Galaxy.

  Hammill felt a deep sense of inner confidence that helped to dispel some of his fears, and knew that he was drawing on the resources of mental power itself. His experiences with the Rhodanans, with Nita, with the actual hsrorn itself—they were changing him, bringing his latent mental skills to fruition. Laird Hammill was growing in mental power with each successive challenge.

  And now forces were gathering for the final attack. He stared at the glowing viewplate, and began to plan his assault, knowing that he might be called upon to develop even further in the next few hours.

  He snapped on the wide-band communicator and began to dictate orders to his ships.

  “Wing 26? Wing 26? Do you read me?”

  “We read you,” came the voice of the radio operator aboard one of the three J-type destroyers that constituted Fighting Wing 26.

  “Here are your orders: attack Starlord base on Nellerang Seven.”

  Quickly, he reeled off the coordinates of that planet and directed the three destroyers to the point of attack.

  He watched as they peeled off from formation and swung down to Nellerang. Then he summoned another group. This would be a pinpoint job, a series of lightning swoops that would immobilize the Starlords’ bases before they were aware of what was going on.

  The Starlords had one great weapon in their armory—the hsrorn stolen from Nita. But that was a question-mark; Hammill did not know if Kleyne would dare to use the gem after seeing what it had done to the late Lord Brannis. And Earth had one great weapon on its side—the sensitive, powerful mind of Laird Hammill.

  Frowning in concentration, he continued the job of planning the destruction of the Starlords.

  The reports began coming in shortly.

  “Wing 38, Commander Hammill. Do you read us?”

  “Come in, Wing 38. Over.”

  “We report mission accomplished. We’ve blasted the port on Quinbak VII and destroyed nine spaceships sitting on the field waiting to blast off.”

  “Good work, Wing 38. Move to Trantol IX now, and operate as follows—”

  Hammill carried the entire gigantic pattern in his mind. Nita, at his side, stared white-faced at the screen, saying nothing, simply lending the strength of her own mind to Hammill. For that moment, he was two people, and the whole was definitely greater than the sum of its parts. His mind ranged through the Shanador system, finding weak points, dispatching ships to blast them immediately.

  As the reports flooded in, a sense of exultation rose within him. Earth was winning! Earth was raking the Starlord bases with deadly fury, was gutting and burning and pillaging before the Starlords could react.

  The exultation immediately died at a colder realization—there were still thousands of unharmed Starlord bases. Even the swiftest surprise attack could not possibly crush all of them at once. And soon, perhaps this very minute, the massed might of Shanador would be assembling to repulse the invader.

  It happened almost instantly. A Class F light cruiser was reporting from Kradang, the moon of Denerix, when suddenly—

  “The ship’s getting warm, sir! It feels like we’re burning up! And there are no enemy ships in firing range!”

  “Let’s have that again!” Hammill ordered. “Check it. Sure you are not under direct fire?”

  “Positive—we—” And the signal crackled off into a trail of static.

  Hammill remained frozen for just a moment. On the screen, a tiny dot of fire told him what had happened to the cruiser.

  The Starlords were beginning to fight back, then. They had recovered from the surprise blow.

  But there was only one weapon that could have struck down the cruiser that way—

  The hsrorn was in use!

  Lord Kleyne was hurling beams of mental sun-force at the Terran ships!

  “What now?” Nita asked, as the reports began coming in. “Someone is using tremendous mental energies, that’s for certain.”

  Hammill nodded. “Yeah. And they’re hiding behind that damnable thought screen, too. Your Observers might be able to pierce it, but I can’t.” He pointed at the astroplate. “There they are, squatting on Denerix like a sniper in a tree, picking off the crews of our ships as fast as they can spot them!”

  It had taken him several minutes to locate the Starlord after the first few ships had failed to report. By expanding his mental perception over an ever-increasing volume of space, he had finally found the source of the energies that were killing his men. The men themselves felt as though they were being burned alive as they died, although no actual physical force was being used against them.

  Hidden invulnerably behind a gigantic thought screen on Denerix, Lord Kleyne was using the hsrorn to detect and kill the Earthship crews.

  Meanwhile, the physical battle was still going on. Some of the Starlords’ ships were getting into space; more and more of them poured into the skies from bases that had not yet been bombed out of existence.

  In the Eighth Decant, thirty thousand light years from Denerix, a tremendous battle had been engaged; the main part of the fleet, under Fleet Admiral Bronson, was fighting a force of Starlord ships which had assembled there, presumably intending to head for Earth.

  Hammill was still in contact with the Admiral’s mind; he focussed sharply on it and watched the battle through the Admiral’s eyes.

  Searing bolts of energy leaped through space, splashing against the force shields of cruisers and battleships. Occasionally, those ravening bursts of energy would cut through the force shields, and the ships would dissolve in a coruscating flash of fire.

  The Earth fleet was still holding its own, but that state of affairs wouldn’t last for long if the Starlords started blasting the minds of the crews. There was only one answer to the problem: The Starlords had to be smashed. And the only man who could do that was Hammill himself.

  Withdrawing from the Fleet Admiral’s mind, Hammill turned to Nita. “I’m taking a scoutship to Denerix.”

  The girl nodded in agreement. It was highly probable that Hammill would die—but he had to take that chance.

  Minutes later, he was in a tiny, one-man spaceship, spearing through space toward Denerix. Mentally he kept watch for the huge thought screen the Starlord was using. Hammill had learned to detect the thought screen; he couldn’t send or receive thoughts through it, but he could see where it was.

  And, as he headed toward Denerix, it moved!
br />   Instantly, Hammill knew what had happened. The thought screen generator was aboard a spaceship, and the ship had taken off. It was quite obviously headed toward the battle in the Eighth Decant.

  Hammill shoved on acceleration, trying to catch up with it before it did any harm. If it reached the scene of the battle—

  There was only one way to beat the thought screen. He had to get inside it physically. That meant he had to invade the Starlords’ spaceship personally!

  Slowly, slowly, the little ship gained on the Starlord’s cruiser. Hammill still could hardly believe that Lord Kleyne had managed to learn to control the hsrorn jewel without help. Lord Brannis had tried it and died. Even Hammill himself had been aided by Nita when he had first used the gem.

  But there was no doubt that the hsrorn was being used; nothing else would account for the destruction of the minds of several hundred Earthmen.

  Five hundred million miles from the fringes of the great battle that was taking place between the stars, the space cruiser of the Starlords slowed and stopped.

  Hammill formed his plan in an instant. Donning his spacesuit, he set the automatic pilot of the ship to continue on in the trajectory already established, and dropped through the airlock.

  He dangled in the bottomless gulf for a moment, wheeling to orientate himself. He caught sight of the Starlord’s cruiser far off down in the star-jeweled distance, and narrowed his eyes as he estimated the push he’d need.

  His mind groped backward until he felt Nita’s thought-radiations. Nita?

  Laird?

  Stay with me, he told her. Then he pushed, propelling himself forward to the Starlords’ great cruiser with his mind.

  He reached the skin of the ship and clung there for a moment. The thought-shield was still wrapped around the vessel; inside, Lord Kleyne dealt destruction to the battered Terran fleets.

  His mind thrust at the thought-shield and rebounded. The ship was tight as a nut.

  Summoning all his hsrorn-awakened powers, Hammill shaped a thought and drove it against the thought-shield, hurling it again and again. The wave-barrier yielded, strained, finally gave. The thought broke through.