For countless years the enigmatic city of Klagan had rested beneath the racing moons of ancient Mars. Forbidden, guarded, sheltered in the cup of the Blue Mountains and surrounded by waterless desert. It rested there, a place of a thousand rumours and whispered fantasies, and gave birth to muttered tales of incredible wealth and riches. To this city came Halmar, the guide; Lorna, the dancer from Venus; and the man called Smith. Defying the ban of the Terran Authorities, the fanatical Drylanders, and the harsh desert, they reached the crystal walls of the strange city. There they found a tremendous mystery, the deserted artefacts of a vanquished civilisation - and found themselves snared in an incredible trap. For Klagan was more than a city. It was. . . What it was and how the intrepid adventurers solved the incredible secret of the mysterious city makes this an exciting tale of science and plausible speculation, action and human motivations.
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
144
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The Cap Kennedy (F.A.T.E.) Series (E.C. Tubb writing as Gregory Kern)
1: Galaxy of the Lost (1973)
2: Slave Ship from Sergan (1973)
3: Monster of Metelaze (1973)
4: Enemy Within the Skull (1974)
5: Jewel of Jarhen (1974)
6: Seetee Alert! (1974)
7: The Gholan Gate (1974)
8: The Eater of Worlds (1974)
9: Earth Enslaved (1974)
10: Planet of Dread (1974)
11: Spawn of Laban (1974)
12: The Genetic Buccaneer (1974)
13: A World Aflame (1974)
14: The Ghosts of Epidoris (1975)
15: Mimics of Dephene (1975)
16: Beyond the Galactic Lens (1975)
17: The Galactiad (1983)
Alien Dust (1955)
Alien Impact (1952)
Journey Into Terror (originally published as Alien Life (1954, rev 1998))
Atom War on Mars (1952)
Fear of Strangers (first published as C.O.D. – Mars (1968))
Century of the Manikin (1972)
City of No Return (1954)
Death God’s Doom (1999)
Death is a Dream (1967)
Dead Weight (first published as Death Wears a White Face (1979))
Escape into Space (1969)
Footsteps of Angels (2004) (previously unpublished work written c.1988)
Hell Planet (1954)
Journey to Mars (1954)
Moon Base (1964)
Pandora’s Box (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)
Pawn of the Omphalos (1980)
S.T.A.R. Flight (1969)
Stardeath (1983)
Starslave (2010) (previously unpublished work written 1984)
Stellar Assignment (1979)
Temple of Death (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)
Fifty Days to Doom (first published as The Extra Man (1954))
The Life-Buyer (1965, 2008)
The Luck Machine (1980)
World in Torment (originally published as The Mutants Rebel (1953))
The Primitive (1977)
The Resurrected Man (1954)
The Sleeping City (1999)
The Space-Born (1956)
The Stellar Legion (1954)
To Dream Again (2011)
Venusian Adventure (1953)
Tide of Death (first published as World at Bay (1954))
E. C. Tubb (writing as Arthur MacLean)
The Possessed (revised version of Touch of Evil (1957))
E. C. Tubb (writing as Brian Shaw)
Argentis (1952)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Carl Maddox)
Menace from the Past (1954)
The Living World (1954)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Charles Grey)
Dynasty of Doom (1953)
The Extra Man (first published as Enterprise 2115 (1954) & then as The Mechanical Monarch (1958))
I Fight for Mars (1953)
Space Hunger (1953)
The Hand of Havoc (1954)
Secret of the Towers (originally published as The Tormented City (1953))
The Wall (1953)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Gill Hunt)
Planetfall (1951)
E. C. Tubb (writing as King Lang)
Saturn Patrol (1951)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Roy Sheldon)
The Metal Eater (1954)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Volsted Gridban)
The Green Helix (originally published as Alien Universe (1952))
Reverse Universe (1952)
Planetoid Disposals Ltd. (1953)
The Freedom Army (originally published as De Bracy’s Drug (1953))
Fugitive of Time (1953)
He was a small, wrinkled, insignificant little man, with sparse grey hair and weak eyes which peered through the thick, distorting
lenses of a pair of old-fashioned spectacles. He wore a rumpled suit of synthosilk, a lightweight tropical suit as used by
clerks and business men, and once it had been neat and expensive looking. Now it clung damply to the slight figure, stained
and damp with perspiration, looking as though it had been slept in for the past few nights.
He stood, swaying a little, a tall glass of green wine in one claw-like hand, and his eyes looked like marbles as they followed the erratic path of a little white ball as it bounced around the spinning edge of a roulette wheel. He was a strange figure, standing out against the boisterous night life of the Venusian tavern like a sore thumb, a little pathetic,
a little helpless, and even a little ludicrous.
He was more than a little drunk.
He swallowed as the spinning ball came to rest, his Adam’s apple jerking in his scrawny throat, and his hand shook as he fumbled
in his pocket.
The man called Smith watched him from hooded eyes.
A strange man this Smith, not unduly tall, but broad and almost stocky. No longer young, he had the ageless inscrutability of the professional gambler, and the broad planes of
his florid features were utterly devoid of emotion. Casually he spun the wheel and called the play in a flat, emotionless
tone.
“Place your bets.”
He waited as chips and folded bills fluttered to the green baize, some thrown casually, some placed deliberately, others coming
to rest as though the players were using their heart’s blood as a stake. The small man fumbled, chips spilling from his fingers,
and his thin hand trembled as he placed them on the red.
“No more play.”
Silence as the little white ball clicked and bounced at the edge of the spinning wheel. It hesitated, hovered, fell with a
soft click into one of the compartments.
“Twenty. Black.”
A sigh arose from the edge of the table as Smith raked in the bets and paid out the winners.
“Place your bets.”
The little man fumbled almost frantically in his pocket and threw a few chips on the black. He seemed almost ill, a thin film
of sweat glistening on his high forehead, and the forgotten wine in his hand danced and quivered from the trembling of his
muscles.
“Fifteen. Red.”
A man swore with unrestrained disappointment, a big, hard-eyed spaceman with the skin of his face pitted from seeping radiation,
and as he stepped back from the table, his arm struck against the glass the little man held in his hand. Green wine made a
sticky mess as it slopped over dirt-stained leather and puddled on the floor.
“You—” The spacer turned, anger slitting his eyes and his big fists clenched. He was spoiling for a fight, for relief from the disappointment of losing, and trouble was just what he needed to ease the tension of the past few minutes
as he watched his hard-earned pay vanish across the green baize. He glared at the little man.
“Watch it, can’t you! What’s the idea of spilling that stuff over me?”
“I’m sorry,” stammered the little man nervously. “I apologise, but really, there isn’t any harm done.”
“No harm?” Contempt twisted the hard lips into a sneer. “Why you little runt! Get on your knees when a man talks to you. Down,
I say!” He grinned, a savage expression utterly devoid of humour, and the little old man cried out as an iron grip ground
into the bones of his shoulder.
“Please,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Leave the old guy alone,” snapped a man from the edge of the crowd. He was a tall, white-skinned swamper, and as he stared
at the spaceman, his hand fell, as though by accident, to the long knife sheathed at his belt. “If you want a fight, pick
on someone your own size.”
“Meaning you?”
“Yeah, if you want it that way.”
For a moment the two men stared at each other, the little old man who had been the cause of the trouble ignored and forgotten,
and around them the crowd thinned and dispersed, wise in the ways of sudden violence and erupting emotions. Then the gambler
was between them, his flat voice a cold purr, and the smile on his florid features belied the hard glittering of his eyes.
“Now, boys,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to cause trouble in here. How about drinks on the House?”
The swamper hesitated, glaring at the spaceman, then shrugged and thrust his way towards the bar. The big man stared after
him, anger knotting the muscles of his jaw, and his hand made a convulsive motion towards a bulge beneath his jacket. The gambler gripped his arm, his fingers digging
into the flesh just above the elbow, and the big man winced as his arm went numb.
“What the hell?”
“Outside, you.”
“What?”
“You heard what I said,” Smith whispered coldly. “Do you go peacefully or do I call up some help?”
“How about that drink?”
“You had your chance and you don’t get another. Now! Outside before I have you thrown out!”
For a moment the big man hesitated, naked rage twisting his pitted features, then, as Smith nodded towards a couple of men,
grunted, and jerked free his arm.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” he snarled. “I’ll be back some day and then—”
Smith shrugged and turned away.
The little old man clutched him as he passed and he frowned, staring at the wrinkled features and marble-like eyes.
“Well?”
“Please. I want to cash a cheque. I’ve lost all the money I brought with me and I want to win it back.” He swallowed, the
Adam’s apple writhing against the puckered skin. “Will you cash it for me?”
“A cheque?” Smith shook his head. “No paper, buster. Cash only.”
“But it’s a good cheque! I’m Professor Scaron of Aphrodite University. Here, I can prove it.” Papers fluttered from his quivering
hands as he pulled them from the crumpled coat. “Look! My identification, registration papers, certificates and authorisations.
You can trust me. You’ve got to trust me.”
“Have I?” Smith stared at the assorted papers. “Why?”
“Because I must win a lot of money. It may be my only chance. I’m an old man, and my heart isn’t what it should be. If I wait
much longer I’ll die during take-off and I’ve got to get to Mars. I’ve got to!”
“Why?”
“Because—” The old man broke off and nervously licked his lips. “Never mind that. Will you accept my cheque?”
“Maybe.” Smith led the old man to a table and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “Bring wine—a bottle.” He looked at
the old man. “Take it easy, pop. The night’s still young and there’s plenty of time to win a million—or lose it. What’s all
this about Mars?”
“Nothing.” Scaron shook his head and Smith shrugged as he waited for the wine. He opened it, pouring two glasses full, and
pushed one over to the professor.
“Have a drink, pop. Rest yourself a while, the table’s too crowded anyway and we may as well wait until after the floor show.
How much would the cheque be for?”
“A thousand credits, it’s all I’ve got left, and it isn’t enough.”
“For passage to Mars?” Smith frowned. “I know a couple of skippers who’d take you for that much. It wouldn’t be too comfortable,
but you’d eat and you’d get there right enough.”
“It’s not only that.” Scaron gulped at his green wine. “There are other things I need. Equipment, money to buy weapons and
to hire a guide. A thousand . . .
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