Geier Amazing Stories Volume 128

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-721-1
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 122 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Amazing Stories Volume 128 is a great collection of action short stories from The Golden Age of Science Fiction. Featured here are three short stories by different authors: Run, Little Monster by Chester S. Geier, The Terror Out of Space by Dwight V. Swain, and Tybalt by Stephen Barr.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Geier, Chester S.

Leseproben

The Terror Out Of Space
Dwight V. Swain
It was a good proposition, the way the lean, grey man from Associated Independents told it. He ticked off the points on his fingers: "Ten thousand credits an Earth year, Boone, win or lose. Full command of the field force. Five per cent cut on the profits if you get a mekronal processing unit in production on one of the unassigned satellites ahead of the Cartel." "Sorry, Terral." Again, Boone glanced at his chronox. "It's like I said. Any other time I might be interested. But right now I've got something else on my mind." "Fifteen thousand, then. And ten per cent if you spot in more than one satellite." Terral leaned forward. "Hell, man, that's more than you can hope to make as a GX if you stay with the Cartel!" Boone grinned, after a fashion. "Sorry." The lean man pushed back abruptly and gulped down his drink. "Then it is the woman!" he accused. A spark of pale fire lighted behind the grey eyes. Even in the dimness of the thil-shop, Boone couldn't miss the tension. "Krobis shoves her in ahead of you, but you'd still throw away your future—" Boone brought his own glass down on the tanach table top, just hard enough so that it clicked a curt, sharp period to the other's sentence. "And what makes that your business?" For the moment Terral's narrow jaws seemed to widen at the hinges. His lips peeled back, as if he were about to say something raw and cutting. Then, reconsidering, he breathed in deep instead and slumped loose in his seat. The thin lips drew together in a crooked smile. "My business—? Nothing, Boone. Nothing at all." "That's the way I see it, too." Boone got up. "Good night, Terral." He strode on out, not bothering to shake hands or look back. The night closed in upon him—the night, and the narrow street; the alien sounds and smells and stir of Gandor City. A cadet from the Federation fleet pushed past him, a moss-furred Callistan crustach perched on his shoulder. Behind the cadet came two spask-masked berlon prospectors, up from the Hertzog fields, leading their lumbering flipper-tentacled coddob by a chain run through its gill-slits. The throb of the atmosphere compressors pressed in like a giant heartbeat, punctuated by the rattle of surface carriers, the shrill wail of tricol pipes. A sweetish, slightly nauseous scent of thes-wood flares and Martian paggod eddied from the doorway of a greasy-looking grill that placarded "Genuine Earth Meats—No Synthetics, No Alien Substitutes!" Once more, Boone checked his chronox. It was less than an hour till the end of the cycle now. In spite of himself, Boone's belly tightened. Turning at the first intersection, he headed for the carrier station. The IC flight was already on the line and waiting. He found a seat next to a dour-faced tech whose eye-whites showed green with mekronal infusion. The carrier wheeled slowly forward into the lock that sealed off Gandor City's precious, bubble-pressured air supply from the bleak world outside. A moment later the lock's outer hatch opened. Climbing on its anti-gravitational beam—slowly, at first; then faster and faster—the carrier lanced out across the star-spangled black velvet of the Ganymedan sky. The minutes dragged. Crags and peaks came and went below; then the dull grey wash of a cliff-bound sea of liquid gas. Off to the left, the sky took on a scarlet-purple tint, reflection of Jupiter's great Red Spot. Down again, then. Down through another hatch, into another lock. Its inner seal opened. The carrier swept into the bubble proper, settling onto the clean-swept ramp with its glaring forspark lights and the sign that said: INTERPLANETARY CARTELS UNLIMITED
MEKRONAL PROCESSING DIVISION
GANYMEDAN ADVANCE BASE Boone passed through the scanner unit; bared his ID plate for the guard. "Back early, aren't you, Mister Boone?" The guard grinned. "Guess it makes a difference when you go alone. Though I will say that new job's a nice break for Miss Rey." Boone nodded, not speaking. "She goes out tonight, doesn't she?" The guard's face grew sober. "Hope she makes it o.k. That Titan run is no picnic—not with this monster business hitting half the ships. Bucking that kind of thing ain't my idea of a woman's job, no matter how high it rates nor how much it pays." "She'll make it, all right." "Sure." The guard's eyes shifted away from Boone's. "Sure, Mister Boone. She'll make it." Boone passed on. Inside the personnel compound, he looked at his chronox again. Only half an hour now till Eileen was scheduled to grav-off. Barely time for the job he had to do.... Turning in at his own quarters, he strode down the empty, echoing corridor to his room; closed the door behind him. The nerve-gun lay in the top drawer, as always—sleek, grim, coldly lethal. Stiff-fingered, Boone checked the charge, then slid the weapon beneath his blouse and turned to go. But Eileen's picture on the corner stand caught him ... held him. Her picture, and the memories that went with it. He picked it up; stared at it. She was wearing her first uniform, with its student stripes, the silver comet Cartel insignia shining against the dark blue of the lapels. But even official tailoring and close-combed regulation hair-do couldn't hide her radiance. The blue eyes laughed with sheer love of living. Her lips showed soft and smiling, better styled for kisses than commands. That was the Eileen Rey whom he remembered ... the Eileen of his own student unit days, the girl who'd climbed rank after rank beside him through Interplanetary Cartels' service. Till now.... He cursed Krobis under his breath, slapped the picture back, face down on the cabinet. There was another guard at the gate to the Titan ramp. Boone bared his ID plate. But the man made no move to step aside. "Sorry, Mister Boone." "What—?" "Mister Krobis' orders, sir. You are barred from the ramp till after the ship gravs off." "Oh." For a long, long moment Boone stood very still. And then: "I see." "He might still be at his office, sir. Maybe if you was to talk to him...." "Thanks." Stiffly, Boone turned and walked back the way he'd come, past silent warehouses and noisy shops and rattling, rumbling surface carrier units. Then he was in front of the blank-faced central administration building. For the fraction of a second only, he hesitated. Then, turning in, he strode through the deserted passageways. Krobis' office. Another guard. "Mister Krobis is busy, sir. He left orders that he wasn't to be disturbed till after the Titan ship gravs off." Again, a long, long, moment of decision. Then, very gently, Boone repeated, "I want to see Krobis." "I'm sorry, sir—" Boone brought out the nerve-gun in one swift motion, leveled it at the man's belly. "Maybe you didn't understand." The guard's eyes flicked from his face to the nerve-gun. "You're making a mistake, sir." Boone kept the nerve-gun steady, ready. "You're probably right. But anyone who tries to stop me is going to get hurt." "If that's the way you want it, sir...." The guard shrugged and stepped aside. "No." Boone shook his head. "You're going in with me, friend. Ahead of me." Wordless, the guard shrugged again and, turning, walked through the anteroom towards Krobis' door. Boone spun the nerve-gun's impact dial down to the temporary paralysis level and fired. The guard crumpled. Stepping across him, Boone tried the door handle. It was locked. Sucking in a quick breath, Boone kicked for the bolt with all his might. The door burst open. He lunged into the office beyond. It was a big room, with the desk set at the far end so that visitors would have plenty of time to lose self-confidence while they walked its length. Martin Krobis specialized in tricks like that. He leaped up as Boone came through the door—face stiff, nostrils flaring. Then: "Boone—!" "That's right." Boone heeled the door shut behind him. "You're a hard man to see these days, Krobis. This time I couldn't wait." Krobis straightened slowly, a small, sharp-featured man with too-short legs. Twin spots of color came to mark his cheekbones, and his black eyes grew hard and shiny. "I don't believe I understand you, Boone." Boone laughed, harsh and bitter. "You understand, all right." He strode forward. "That's why you gave orders to the guards to keep me away from you and off the ramp." "So—?" This out of a thin-lipped, mask-like face. "So Eileen Rey doesn't take the Titan run." Boone gestured with the gun. "Let's go, Krobis." "You realize what you're doing, of course, Boone?" A raw, raging edge crept into Krobis' voice. "You know that this finishes you with IC? That as soon as my report goes in, it's the end of your career?" Deliberately, Boone spun the nerve-gun's dial to the lethal output point. "Time's too short for talk, Krobis. We're going out to the ramp. You and me, together." Again, Krobis' nostrils flared. His shoulders drew in. His head thrust a fraction forward. Boone tightened his finger on the nerve-gun's trigger. "Try it, Krobis. Just try it." Silence. Long, aching seconds of silence. Then, slowly, Krobis' head came up. He made a business of smoothing his sleek black hair and came around the desk, walking with the peculiar, waddling stride that came of trying to stretch his too-short legs farther than they were meant to go. He hadn't done quite a good enough job on his hairline, either, Boone noted. Tiny beads of...