“He… then—”
Phil said, “Don’t you get it? He found the gun right here on Roye. Beulah thought it was awfully funny. William was an old fool, she said, but the best liar she’d ever known. He came in with the thing one day after he’d been traipsing around the back country, and said it looked ‘sort of’ like pictures of Geest guns he’d seen, and that he was going to put the inscription on it and have some fun now and then.” Phil took a deep breath. “Uncle William found it lying in a pile of ashes where someone had made camp a few days before. He figured it would have been a planetary speedster some rich sportsmen from Earth had brought in for a taste of outworld hunting on Roye, and that one of them had dumped the broken oddball gun into the fire to get rid of it.
“That was thirty-six years ago. Beulah remembered it happened a year before I was born.”
There was silence for some seconds. Then Ronald Black said evenly, “And what do you conclude, Boles?”
Phil looked at him. “I’d conclude that Norm Vaughn was right about there having been some fairly intelligent creatures here once. The Geests ran into them and exterminated them as they usually do. That might have been a couple of centuries back. Then, thirty-six years ago, one of their scouts slipped in here without being spotted, found human beings on the planet, looked around a little and left again.”
He took the Geest gun from his pocket, hefted it in his hand. “We have the evidence here,” he said. “We had it all the time and didn’t know it.”
Ronald Black said dryly, “We may have the evidence. But we have no slightest proof at all now that that’s what it is.”
“I know it,” Phil said. “Now Beulah’s gone… well, we couldn’t even prove that William Boles never left the planet, for that matter. There weren’t any records to speak of being kept in the early days.” He was silent a moment. “Supposing,” he said, “we went ahead anyway. We hand the gun in, with the story I just told you—”
Jackson made a harsh, laughing sound. “That would hang us fast, Phil!”
“And nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” Black said with finality. “Why should anyone believe the story now? There are a hundred more likely ways in which a Geest gun could have got to Roye. The gun is tangible evidence of the hoax, but that’s all.”
Phil asked, “Does anybody… including the cautious gentlemen in the car over there… disagree with that?”
There was silence again. Phil shrugged, turned towards the cliff edge, drew his arm back and hurled the Geest gun far up and out above the sea. Still without speaking, the others turned their heads to watch it fall towards the water, then looked back at him.
“I didn’t think very much of that possibility myself,” Phil said unsteadily. “But one of you might have. All right—we know the Geests know we’re here. But we won’t be able to convince anyone else of it. And, these last few years, the war seems to have been slowing down again. In the past, that’s always meant the Geests were preparing a big new surprise operation.
“So the other thing now—the business of getting off Roye. It can’t be done unless some of you have made prior arrangements for it Earthside. If it had been possible in any other way, I’d have been out of this place ten years ago.”
Ronald Black said carefully, “Very unfortunately, Boles, no such arrangements have been made.”
“Then there it is,” Phil said. “I suppose you see now why I thought this group should get together. The ten masterminds! Well, we’ve hoaxed ourselves into a massive jam. Now let’s find out if there’s any possible way—any possibility at all!—of getting out of it again.”
A voice spoke tinnily from Jackson’s lapel communicator. “Major Jackson?”
“Yes?” Jackson said.
“Please persuade Miss Adams that it is no longer necessary to point her gun at this car. In view of the stated emergency, we feel we had better come out now—and join the conference.”
* * *
FROM THE RECORDS OF THE TERRITORIAL OFFICE, 2345 A.D.
… It is generally acknowledged that the Campaign of the 132nd Segment marked the turning point of the Geest War. Following the retransfer of Colonel Silas Thayer to Earth, the inspired leadership of Major Wayne Jackson and his indefatigable and exceptionally able assistants, notably CLU President Boles, transformed the technically unfortified and thinly settled key world of Roye within twelve years into a virtual death trap for any invading force. Almost half of the Geest fleet which eventually arrived there was destroyed in the first week subsequent to the landing, and few of the remaining ships were sufficiently undamaged to be able to lift again. The enemy relief fleet, comprising an estimated forty per cent of the surviving Geest space power, was intercepted in the 134th Segment by the combined Earth forces under Admiral McKenna’s command and virtually annihilated.
In the following two years…
DEATH WISH
by Robert Sheckley
Compared with a spaceship in distress, going to hell in a handbasket is roomy and slow!
The space freighter Queen Dierdre was a great, squat, pockmarked vessel of the Earth-Mars run and she never gave anyone a bit of trouble. That should have been sufficient warning to Mr. Watkins, her engineer. Watkins was fond of saying that there are two kinds of equipment—the kind that fails bit by bit, and the kind that fails all at once.
Watkins was short and red-faced, magnificently mustached, and always a little out of breath. With a cigar in his hand, over a glass of beer, he talked most cynically about his ship, in the immemorial fashion of engineers. But in reality, Watkins was foolishly infatuated with Dierdre, idealized her, humanized her, and couldn’t conceive of anything serious ever happening.
On this particular run, Dierdre soared away from Terra at the proper speed; Mr. Watkins signaled that fuel was being consumed at the proper rate; and Captain Somers cut the engines at the proper moment indicated by Mr. Rajcik, the navigator.
As soon as Point Able had been reached and the engines stopped, Somers frowned and studied his complex control board. He was a thin and meticulous man, and he operated his ship with mechanical perfection. He was well liked in the front offices of Mikkelsen Space Lines, where Old Man Mikkelsen pointed to Captain Somers’ reports as models of neatness and efficiency. On Mars, he stayed at the Officers’ Club, eschewing the stews and dives of Marsport. On Earth, he lived in a little Vermont cottage and enjoyed the quiet companionship of two cats, a Japanese houseboy, and a wife.
* * *
His instructions read true. And yet he sensed something wrong. Somers knew every creak, rattle and groan that Dierdre was capable of making. During blastoff, he had heard something different. In space, something different had to be wrong.
“Mr. Rajcik,” he said, turning to his navigator, “would you check the cargo? I believe something may have shifted.”
“You bet,” Rajcik said cheerfully. He was an almost offensively handsome young man with black wavy hair, blasé blue eyes and a cleft chin. Despite his appearance, Rajcik was thoroughly qualified for his position. But he was only one of fifty thousand thoroughly qualified men who lusted for a berth on one of the fourteen spaceships in existence. Only Stephen Rajcik had had the foresight, appearance and fortitude to court and wed Helga, Old Man Mikkelsen’s eldest daughter.
Rajcik went aft to the cargo hold. Dierdre was carrying transistors this time, and microfilm books, platinum filaments, salamis, and other items that could not as yet be produced on Mars. But the bulk of her space was taken by the immense Fahrensen Computer.
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