James Amazing Tales Volume 106

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-3-98744-700-6
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 102 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Welcome to Amazing Tales Volume 106, a riveting collection that delves into the mysteries of time, space, and human ingenuity. This anthology invites readers to explore distant worlds and future possibilities through a series of captivating narratives. In Exit from Asteroid 60 by D. L. James, embark on a thrilling escape from a perilous asteroid, where survival hinges on quick thinking and courage. Transitioning from danger to discovery, Donald A. Wollheim's The Planet That Time Forgot invites you to Planet P, a celestial mystery where the fabric of time itself is suspended, challenging every explorer's perception of reality. As we continue, D. L. James returns with Tickets to Paradise, a story that questions the true cost of utopia and the lengths one will go to achieve a dreamlike existence. Meanwhile, Wollheim's The Planet of Illusion takes us on a voyage with the Astralite crew to an enigmatic world that defies logic, blurring the line between truth and deception. The theme of innovation takes center stage in Stanton A. Coblentz's The Cosmic Deflector, where Dan Holcomb's invention holds the power to alter planetary movements, promising a revolution in cosmic exploration. Coblentz's narrative prowess shines again in Headhunters of Nuamerica, a tale of grit and survival in a dystopian future where allegiance and cunning are key to overcoming chaos. Finally, Flight Through Tomorrow by Coblentz presents an accidental journey through time, as a chemist's discovery of the Release Drug Relin opens doors to unimagined realms, offering a profound exploration of the human condition across epochs. Each story in Amazing Tales Volume 106 offers a unique glimpse into fantastical worlds, bound together by themes of exploration, innovation, and the relentless pursuit of knowledge. Dive into these pages and let your imagination soar.

Autoren/Hrsg.

James, D. L.

Leseproben

D. L. JAMES

Strange things were happening on Echo, weird
Martian satellite. But none stranger than
the two Earthlings who hurtled into the
star-lanes from its deep, hidden core.

Echo is naturally magnetic, probably more so than any other planetoid—and Neal Bormon cursed softly, just to relieve his feelings, as that magnetism gripped the small iron plates on the soles of the rough boots with which the Martians had provided him. Slavery—and in the twenty-ninth century! It was difficult to conceive of it, but it was all too painfully true. His hands, inside their air-tight gauntlets, wadded into fists; little knots of muscle bulged along his lean jaw, and he stared at the darkness around him as if realizing it for the first time. This gang had plenty of guts, to shanghai men from the Earth-Mars Transport Lines. They'd never get by with it.

And yet, they had—until now. First, Keith Calbur, and then himself. Of course, there had been others before Calbur, but not personal friends of Neal Bormon. Men just disappeared. And you could do that in the Martian spaceport of Quessel without arousing much comment—unless you were a high official. But when Calbur failed to show up in time for a return voyage to Earth, Bormon had taken up the search.

Vague clews had led him into that pleasure palace in Quessel—a joint frequented alike by human beings and Martians—a fantasmagoria of tinkling soul-lights; gossamer arms of frozen music that set your senses reeling when they floated near you; lyric forms that lived and danced and died like thoughts. Then someone had crushed a bead of reverie-gas, probably held in a Martian tentacle, under Bormon's nostrils, and now—here he was on Echo.

He gave an angry yank at the chain which was locked around his left wrist. The other end was fastened to a large metal basket partly filled with lumps of whitish-gray ore, and the basket bobbed and scraped along behind him as he advanced. Of the hundred or more Earthmen, prisoners here on Echo, only seven or eight were within sight of Bormon, visible as mere crawling spots of light; but he knew that each was provided with a basket and rock-pick similar to his own. As yet he had not identified anyone of them as Keith Calbur. Suddenly the metallic voice of a Martian guard sounded in Bormon's ears.

"Attention. One-seven-two. Your basket is not yet half filled, your oxygen tank is nearly empty. You will receive no more food or oxygen until you deliver your quota of ore. Get busy."

"To hell with you!" fumed Bormon—quite vainly, as he well knew, for the helmet of his space suit was not provided with voice-sending equipment. Nevertheless, after a swift glance at the oxygen gauge, he began to swing his rock-pick with renewed vigor, pausing now and then to toss the loosened lumps of ore into the latticed basket. On Earth, that huge container, filled with ore, would have weighed over a ton; here on Echo its weight was only a few pounds.

Neal Bormon had the average spaceman's dread of oxygen shortage. And so, working steadily, he at last had the huge basket filled with ore—almost pure rhodium—judging by the color and weight of the lumps. Nearby, a jagged gash of light on the almost black shoulder of Echo indicated the location of that tremendous chasm which cut two-thirds of the way through the small asteroid, and in which the Martians had installed their machine for consuming ore.

Locating this gash of light, Bormon set out toward it, dragging the basket of ore behind him over the rough, rocky surface.

The ultimate purpose of that gargantuan mechanism, and why this side of the planetoid apparently never turned toward the sun, were mysteries with which his mind struggled but could not fathom.

Presently, having reached the rim of the abyss, with only a narrow margin of oxygen left, he commenced the downward passage, his iron-shod boots clinging to the vertical wall of metallic rock, and as he advanced this magnetic attraction became ever more intense. The blaze of lights before him grew brighter and seemed to expand. Dimly, two hundred yards over his head, he could glimpse the opposite wall of the chasm like the opposing jaw of an enormous vise.

He joined the slow-moving stream of workers. They were filing past a guard and out on a narrow metal catwalk that seemed to be suspended—or rather poised—by thin rods in close proximity to a spacious disk which extended from wall to wall of the chasm. They moved in absolute silence. Even when tilted ore-baskets dumped a ton or more ore into the gaping orifice in the center of the disk, there was still no sound—for Echo, small and barren of native life, lacked even the suggestion of a sound-carrying atmosphere.

And that weird soundlessness of the action around him brought a giddy sense of unreality to Neal Bormon. Only the harsh, mechanical voice of the Martian guard, intoning orders with cold and impersonal precision, seemed actually real.

"Attention. One-seven-two. Dump your ore...."

These Earthmen were apparently known by numbers only. Bormon's own number—172—was on a thin metal stencil stretched across the outer surface of the glass vision plate of his helmet; he couldn't forget it.

He obeyed the Martian's order. Then he noticed that men with empty baskets were moving along a curved ramp, like a corkscrew, which led to a different level, whether above or below he could not possibly tell without a distinct mental effort.

He decided it was to a lower level as he moved onward, for the huge disk lost its circularity and became like the curving wall of a cylinder, or drum, down the outside of which the ramp twisted. Fresh ore was also being brought from this direction. And seeming to extend out indefinitely into blackness was a misty shaft, like the beam of a searchlight. Presently the ramp gave way to a tunnel-like passage.

Flexible metal-sheathed tubes dangled from the ceiling. These tubes were labeled: OXYGEN, WATER, NUTRIENT.

Bormon, patterning the actions of those he observed around him began to replenish his supply of these three essentials to life. His space suit was of conventional design, with flasks in front for water and nutrient fluid, and oxygen tank across the shoulders. By attaching the proper tubes and opening valves—except the oxygen inlet valve, which was automatic—he soon had his suit provisioned to capacity.

He had just finished this operation when someone touched his arm. He glanced up at the bulky, tall figure—an unmistakable form that even a month's sojourn on Echo had not been able to rob of a certain virility and youthful eclat.

For a moment they stared into each other's eyes through the vision plates of their helmets and Bormon was struck dumb by the change, the stark and utterly nerve-fagged hopelessness expressed on Keith Calbur's features.

Then Calbur tried to grin a welcome, and the effect was ghastly!

For a moment his helmet clicked into contact with Bormon's.

"Neal," he said, his voice sounding far away, "so they got you, too! We can't talk here.... I'm pretty well shot. Lived in this damn walking tent for ages. No sleep, not since they took me.... Some powder, drug, they put in the nutrient fluid—it's supposed to take the place of sleep—and you can't sleep! Only it doesn't.... You come along with me."

The darkness swallowed them up. Bormon had thrown his rock-pick into his empty basket. And now, by keeping one hand in contact with Calbur's basket, as it bobbed and jerked on ahead, he was able, even in the inky blackness, to keep from straying aside.

After seemingly interminable groping and stumbling, Calbur's light flashed on. They had entered a pocket in the rocks, Bormon realized, a small cavern whose walls would prevent the light from betraying their presence to the guard.

Calbur threw himself exhaustedly down, signifying that Bormon should do likewise, and with their helmets touching, a strange conversation ensued.

Bormon explained, as well as he was able, his presence there.

"When you didn't show up, Keith, in time to blast for Earth," he said, "all we could do was to report your absence to the space police. But they're swamped; too many disappearances lately. Moreover, they're trying to relocate that stream of meteoric matter which wrecked a freighter some time back. They know something is in the wind, but they'll never guess this! For weeks they've had the patrol ship, Alert, scouting around Mars. So, after making the run to Earth and back to Mars—I had to do that, you know—I got back in Quessel again and commenced to pry around, sort of inviting the same thing to happen to me that had happened to you—and here we are."

"We're here for keeps, looks like," answered Calbur grimly, his voice having lost part of that overtone of strained nerves. "A man doesn't last long, so the other prisoners say, two months at the most. These Marts use Earthmen because we're tougher, here at least, and last longer than Marts.... Hell, what wouldn't I give for a smoke!"

"But the purpose, Keith? What's the scheme?"

"I thought you knew. Just Marts with fighting ideas—a crowd backed by wealthy, middle-class Martians who call themselves Lords of Conquest. They're building ships, weapons. First, they're going to take over Mars from the present government, which is friendly to Earth, and then they're going to subdue Earth."

Calbur had switched off his light, as a matter of precaution, and his voice came to Bormon from a seemingly far distant point—a voice from out of the darkness, fraught with fantastic suggestion.

"Ships? You say they're building ships? Where?" Bormon asked, his own voice reverberating harshly within the confines of his helmet.

"In a...