Питер Филлипс - In Space No One Can Hear You Scream

“What the hell are you?”

The lights came on.

“Courts do not sit in judgement,” said the fat boy, standing naked before Reynold. “When you detonated that device it only confirmed your death sentence, all that remained was execution of that sentence. However, everyone here possessed vital knowledge of others in the Separatist organisation and of other atrocities committed by it—mental evidence requiring deep forensic analysis.”

Fat boy’s skin looked greyish, corpselike, but only after a moment did Reynold realise it was turning metallic. The fat boy leaned forwards a little. “I am the Brockle. I am the forensic AI sent to gather and analyse that evidence, and incidentally kill you.”

Now fat boy’s skin had taken on a transparency, and underneath it could be seen he was just made of knots of flat segmented worms some of which were already dropping to the floor, others in the process of unravelling. Reynold scrabbled across the carpet towards his gun as a cold metallic wave washed over him. Delicate tubular drills began boring into his head, into his mind. In agony he hoped for another wave called death to swamp him and, though it came physically, his consciousness did not fade. It remained, somewhere, in some no space, while a cold meticulous intelligence took it apart piece by piece.

Here’s a story from the grand old days of the sf pulp magazines. The story’s protagonist was the only one manning an emergency station on the Moon, and was bored out of his skull, wishing something would happen to ease the ennui. Be careful what you wish for . . .

(Incidentally, Ernst was obviously trying to get his facts right about the Moon—John W. Campbell was now the editor of Astounding Science-Fiction , after all—at least the facts which were known in 1939, but he made a few scientific mistakes. I’ll leave spotting them as an exercise for the reader.)

Paul Ernst (1899-1985, though there is some doubt about these dates) was a prolific writer for the pulp magazines, and is best remembered for writing most of the 24 novels detailing the exploits of the pulp hero, The Avenger, in the magazine with the same name. These were written under the Street & Smith house name of Kenneth Robeson (the name also used on Doc Savage magazine, though most of Doc’s adventures were written by Lester Dent). He also wrote the Doctor Satan series for Weird Tales in the 1930s. When the pulp magazines died in the 1950s, he began selling stories to the higher-paying (and supposedly more respectable) slick magazines, but in the heyday of the pulps he turned out stories in many categories: westerns, mysteries, science fiction, and horror. This one’s a twofer of those last two types.

The shining ball of the full Earth floated like a smooth pearl between two vast, angular mountains. The full Earth. Another month had ticked by.

Clow Hartigan turned from the porthole beside the small airlock to the Bliss radio transmitter.

“RC3, RC3, RC3,” he droned out.

There was no answer. Stacey, up in New York, always took his time about answering the RC3 signal, confound it! But then, why shouldn’t he? There was never anything of importance to listen to from station RC3. Nothing of any significance ever happened on the Moon.

Hartigan stared unseeingly at the pink cover of a six-month-old Tadio Gazette , pasted to the wall over the control board. A pulchritudinous brunette stared archly back at him over a plump shoulder that was only one of many large nude areas.

“RC3, RC3—”

Ah, there Stacey was, the pompous little busybody.

“Hartigan talking. Monthly report.”

“Go ahead, Hartigan.”

A hurried, fussy voice. Calls of real import waited for Stacey, calls from Venus and Jupiter and Mars. Hurry up, Moon, and report that nothing has happened, as usual.

Hartigan proceeded to do so. “Lunar conditions the same. No ships have put in, or have reported themselves as being in distress. The hangar is in good shape, with no leaks. Nothing out of the way has occurred.”

“Right,” said Stacey pompously. “Supplies?”

“You might send up a blonde,” said Hartigan.

“Be serious. Need anything?”

“No.” Hartigan’s eyes brooded. “How’s everything in Little Old New York?”

“Sorry. Can’t gossip. Things are pretty busy around here. If you need anything, let me know.”

The burr of power went dead. Hartigan cursed with monotony, and got up.

Clow Hartigan was a big young man with sand-red hair and slightly bitter blue eyes. He was representative of the type Spaceways sent to such isolated emergency landing stations as the Moon.

There were half a dozen such emergency landing domes, visited only by supply ships, exporting nothing, but ready in case some passenger liner was crippled by a meteor or by mechanical trouble. The two worst on the Spaceways list were the insulated hell on Mercury, and this great lonely hangar on the Moon. To them Spaceways sent the pick of their probation executives. Big men. Powerful men. Young men. (Also men who were unlucky enough not to have an old family friend or an uncle on the board of directors who could swing a soft berth for them.) Spaceways did not keep them there long. Men killed themselves, or went mad and began inconsiderately smashing expensive equipment, after too long a dose of such loneliness as that of the Moon.

Hartigan went back to the porthole beside the small airlock. As he went, he talked to himself, as men do when they have been too long away from their own kind.

“I wish I’d brought a dog up here, or a cat. I wish there’s be an attempted raid. Anything at all. If only something would happen .”

Resentfully he stared out at the photographic, black-and-white lunar landscape, lighted coldly by the full Earth. From that his eye went to the deep black of the heavens. Then his heart gave a jump. There was a faint light up there where no light was supposed to be.

He hurried to the telescope and studied it. A space liner, and a big one! Out of its course, no matter where it was bound, or it couldn’t have been seen from the Moon with the naked eye. Was it limping in here to the emergency landing for repairs?

“I don’t wish them any bad luck,” muttered Hartigan, “but I hope they’ve burned out a rocket tube.”

Soon his heart sank, however. The liner soared over the landing dome a hundred miles up, and went serenely on its way. In a short time its light faded in distance. Probably it was one of the luxurious around-the-solar-system ships, passing close to the Moon to give the sightseers an intimate glimpse of it, but not stopping because there was absolutely nothing of interest there.

“Nothing ever happens in this Godforsaken hole,” Hartigan gritted.

Impatiently he took his space suit down from the rack. Impatiently he stepped into the bulky, flexible metal thing and clamped down the headpiece. Nothing else to do. He’d take a walk. The red beam of the radio control board would summon him back to the hangar if for any reason anyone tried to raise RC3.

He let himself out through the double wall of the small airlock and set out with easy, fifteen-foot strides toward a nearby cliff on the brink of which it was sometimes his habit to sit and think nasty thoughts of the men who ran Spaceways and maintained places like RC3.

Between the hangar and the cliff was a wide expanse of gray lava ash, a sort of small lake of the stuff, feathery fine. Hartigan did not know how deep it might be. He did know that a man could probably sink down in it so far that he would never be able to burrow out again.

He turned to skirt the lava ash, but paused a moment before proceeding.