E.E. 'Doc' Smith SF Gateway Omnibus: The Skylark of Space, Skylark Three, Skylark of Valeron, Skylark DuQuesne (101 page)

‘You said it, presh; I sure should.’ Seaton put on his helmet; and it was a long time before either of the Seatons got back to sleep. Long for Dorothy, heroically keeping eyes closed and breathing regularly so that her husband would not know how shaken and terrified she really was; long for Seaton himself, who lay hour upon endless hour, hands linked behind his head, gray eyes staring fiercely up into the darkness.

It had been a long time since Richard Ballinger Seaton and Marc C. DuQuesne had locked horns last. This galaxy – this cluster – this whole First Universe was not large enough for the two of them. When they met again one of them would dispose of the other.

It was as simple as that. Yet Seaton had accepted a call for help. The whole enormous complex of defenses that he had labored so hard and long to erect against DuQuesne would now be diverted to another, perhaps even a greater, threat to the safety of civilization. It was right and proper that this should be so.

But Seaton knew that whatever the best interests of civilization in this matter, there could and would never be any greater personal threat to himself than was incarnate in the cold, hard, transcendentally logical person of Blackie DuQuesne.

And half a universe away other events were moving to fruition.

As has been said, the eight hundred Jelmi aboard the ship that had once been a Llurdan cruiser were the selected pick of the teeming billions of their race inhabiting two hundred forty-one planets. The younger ones had been selected for brains, ability, and physical perfection;
the older ones for a hundred years or more of outstanding scientific achievement. And of the older group, Tammon stood out head and shoulders above all the rest. He was the Einstein of his race.

He looked a vigorous, bushily gray-haired sixty; but was in fact two hundred eleven Mallidaxian years old.

Tammon was poring over a computed graph, measuring its various characteristics with vernier calipers, a filar microscope, and an integrating planimeter, when Mergon and Luloy came swinging hand in hand into his laboratory. Both were now fully recovered from the wounds they had suffered in that hand-to-hand battle with the Llurdi on now-far-distant Llurdiax. Muscles moved smoothly under the unblemished bronze of Mergon’s skin; Luloy’s swirling shoulder-length mop of gleaming chestnut hair was a turbulent glory.

‘Hail, Tamm,’ the two said in unison, and Mergon went on: ‘Have you unscrewed the inscrutability of that anomalous peak yet?’

Tammon picked up another chart and scowled at a sharp spike going up almost to the top of the scale. ‘This? I’m not exactly sure yet, but I may have. At least, by re-computing with an entirely new and more-than-somewhat weird set of determinors, I got this,’ and he ran his fingertip along the smooth curve on the chart he had been studying.

Mergon whistled through his teeth and Luloy, after staring for a moment said, ‘Wonderful! Expound, O sage, and elucidate.’

‘It had to have at least one component in the sixth, on the level of thought, but no known determinors would affect it. Therefore I applied the mathematics of symbolic logic to a wide variety of hunches, dreams, I’ve-been-here-or-done-this-befores, premonitions, intuitions …’

‘Llenderllon’s eyeballs!’ Luloy broke in. ‘So
that
was what you ran us all through the wringer for, a while back.’

‘Precisely. Using these new determinors in various configurations – dictated not by mathematical reasoning, but by luck and by hunch and by perseverance – I finally obtained a set of uniquely manipulable determinants that yielded this final smooth curve, the exactly fitting equation of which reduces beautifully to—’

‘Hold it, Tamm,’ Mergon said, ‘you’re losing me,’ and Luloy added:

‘You lost
me
long ago. What does it
mean?
’

‘It will take years to explore its ramifications, but one fact is clear: the fourth dimension of space does actually exist. Therefore, the conclusion seems inescapable that …’

‘Stop it!’ Luloy snapped. ‘This is terribly dangerous stuff to be talking about. That terrific kind of a breakthrough is just
exactly
what Klazmon – the beast! – has been after for years. And you know very well that we’re not really free; that he has us under constant surveillance.’

‘But by detector only,’ Mergon said. ‘A full working projection at this distance? Uh-uh. It might be smart, though, to be a little on
the careful side, at that.’

Days lengthened into weeks. The ex-Llurdan cruiser, renamed the
Mallidax
and converted into a Jelman worldlet, still hurtled along a right-line course toward the center of the First Universe, at a positive-and-negative acceleration that would keep her – just barely! – safe against collision with intergalactic clouds of gas or dust.

The objective of their flight was a small sun, among whose quite undistinguished family of planets were a moderate-sized oxygen-bearing world and its rather large, but otherwise uninteresting companion moon.

Tammon, hot on the trail of his breakthrough in science, kept his First Assistant Mergon busy fourteen or sixteen hours per day designing and building – and sometimes inventing – new and extremely special gear; and Mergon in turn drove Luloy, his wife and Girl Friday, as hard as he drove himself.

Tammon, half the time, wore armor and billion-volt gloves against the terribly lethal forces he was tossing so nonchalantly from point to point. Mergon, only slightly less powerfully insulated, had to keep his variable-density goggles practically opaque against the eye-tearing frequencies of his welding arcs. And even Luloy, much as she detested the feel of clothing against her skin, was as armored and as insulated as was either of the men as she tested and checked and double-checked and operated, with heavily gloved flying fingers, the maze of unguarded controls that was her constructor station.

And all the other Jelmi were working just as hard; even – or especially? – Master Biologist Sennlloy: who, with her long, thick braids of Norse-goddess hair piled high on her head and held in place by a platinum-filigree net, was delving deeper and even deeper into the mystery of life.

Any research man worth his salt must not be the type to give up: he must be able to keep on butting his head against a stone wall indefinitely without hoisting the white flag. Thus, Tammon developed theory after theory after theory for, and Mergon and Luloy built model after model after model of, mechanisms to transport material objects from one place to another in normal space by moving them
through
the fourth dimension – and model after model after model failed to work.

They failed unfailingly. Unanimously. Wherefore Mergon had run somewhat low on enthusiasm when he and Luloy carried the forty-ninth model of the series into Tammon’s laboratory to be put to the test. While the old savant hooked the device up into a breadboard layout of gadgetry some fifteen feet long, Mergon somewhat boredly picked up an empty steel box, dropped six large ball-bearings into it, closed and hasped its cover, grasped it firmly in his left hand, and placed an empty steel bowl on the bench.

‘Now,’ Tammon said, and flipped a switch
– and six heavy steel balls clanged into the bowl out of nowhere.

‘Huh?’ Mergon’s left hand had jumped upward of its own accord; and, fumbling in his haste, he opened the box in that hand and stared, jaw actually agape, at its empty interior.

‘Llenderllon’s eyeballs!’ Luloy shrieked. ‘
This
one works!’

‘It does indeed,’ a technician agreed, and turned anxiously to Tammon. ‘But sir, doesn’t that fact put us into a highly dangerous position? Even though Klazmon can’t operate a full working projection at this distance, he undoubtedly has had all his analytical detectors out all this time and this successful demonstration must have tripped at least some of them.’

‘Not a chance,’ Mergon said. ‘He’ll
never
find these bands – it’d be exactly like trying to analyze a pattern of fifth- or sixth-order force with a visible-light spectroscope.’

‘It probably would be, at that,’ the technician agreed, and Luloy said, ‘But what I’ve been wondering about all along is, what
good
is it? What’s it
for?
Except robbing a bank or something, maybe.’

‘It reduces theory to practice,’ Tammon told her. ‘It gives us priceless data, by application of which to already-known concepts we will be able to build mechanisms and devices to perform operations hitherto deemed impossible. Operations un-thought-of, in fact.’

‘Maybe we should be pretty careful about it, though, at that,’ Mergon said. ‘To do very much real development work, we’ll have to be using a lot of fairly unusual sixth-order stuff that he can detect and analyze. That will make him wonder what we’re up to and he won’t stop at wondering. He’ll take steps.’

‘
Big
steps,’ Luloy agreed.

Tammon nodded. ‘That is true … and we must land somewhere to do any worthwhile development work, since this ship is not large enough to house the projectors we will have to have. Also, we are short of certain necessities for such work, notably neutronium and faidons … and the projectors of these ultra-bands will have to be of tremendous power, range, and scope … you are right. We must find a solar system emanating sixth-order energies. Enough of them, if possible, to mask completely our own unavoidable emanations. We now have enough new data so that we can increase tremendously the range, delicacy, and accuracy of our own detectors. See to it, Mergon, and find a good landing place.’

‘Yes, sir!’ and Mergon went, with enthusiasm again soaring high, to work.

Rebuilding, and re-powering their detector systems did not take very long; but finding the kind of landing place they needed proved to be something entirely else.

They had more or less assumed that many galaxies would show as much sixth-order activity as did their own, but that assumption was wrong. In three weeks they found only three galaxies showing any
at all; and not one of the three was emanating as much sixth-order stuff as their own small vessel was putting out.

After another week or so, however, the savant on watch asked Mergon to come to his station. ‘There’s something tremendous up ahead and off to starboard, Merg. That spot there.’ He pointed. ‘It’s been there for almost half an hour and it hasn’t increased by a thousandth of what I expected it to. I would have said that at that distance nothing could possibly register that high.’

‘Did you check your circuits?’ Mergon asked.

‘Of course; everything’s on the green.’

‘Main Control!’ Mergon snapped into a microphone. ‘Mergon speaking. Flip one eighty immediately. Decel max.’

‘Flip one eighty,’ the speaker said, and the vessel turned rapidly end for end. ‘… ON the mark and decelerating at max.’

Mergon whirled around and sprinted for Tammon’s laboratory. He yanked the door and reported, concluding, ‘It’s apparently emanating thousands of times as much as our whole galaxy does, so we’d better sneak up on it with care.’

‘Can we stop in time or will we have to overshoot and come back to it from the other side? That may affect course, you know.’

Mergon hadn’t thought of that point, but he soon found out. They couldn’t stop quite in time, but the overshoot would be a matter of less than a day.

‘See to it, Mergon,’ Tammon said, and resumed his interrupted studies.

The approach was made. Surprise turned to consternation when it was learned that practically all of that emanation was coming from one planet instead of a thousand; but since that condition was even better than any that had been hoped for, they shielded everything that could be shielded and sneaked up on that extraordinary world – the third planet of a Type G sun. It had an unusually large satellite … and ideal location for their proposed operation … there were two small clusters of dome-shaped structures … abandoned … quite recently … with advanced technology all such things and procedures would of course be abandoned … and there were bits and pieces of what looked like wreckage.

Seaton – who had not yet seen at close up any part of the moon! – would have recognized at a glance the American and the Russian lunar outposts, and also what was left of Ranger Seven and of several, other American and Russian moon-rockets.

As a matter of fact, the Jelmi could deduce, within fairly narrow limits, what had happened on Earth’s moon.

But all they cared about was that, since the moon was not inhabited at that time, they would probably not attract undue attention if they landed on it and, thoroughly and properly screened, went to work. And Klazmon could not possibly detect them there.

Luna’s mountains are high and steep. Therefore,
after the
Mallidax
had come easily to ground at the foot of one such mountain, it took only a day for the
Mallidax’s
mighty construction-projectors to hollow out and finish off a sub-lunar base in that mountain’s depths.

And next day, early, work was begun upon the tremendous new superdreadnought of the void that was going to be named the
Mallidaxian.

Miss Madlyn Mannis – née Gretchen Schneider – stood in the shade of a huge beach umbrella (perish forbid that any single square inch of that petal-smooth, creamily flawless epidermis should be exposed to Florida’s fervent sun!) on Clearwater Beach. She was digging first one set of red-nailed toes and then the other into the soft white sand, and was gazing pensively out over the wavelets of the Gulf.

She was a tall girl, and beautifully built, with artistically waved artistically red hair; and every motion she made was made with the lithe grace of the highly trained professional dancer that she in fact was. She was one of the best exotic dancers in the business. As a matter of box-office fact, she was actually almost as good as she thought she was.

She was wearing the skimpiest neo-bikini ever seen on Clearwater Beach and was paying no attention whatever, either to the outraged glares of all the other women in sight or to the distinctly outraged glances of the well-built, deeply tanned, and highly appreciative young man who was standing some twenty feet away.