Cosmic Exodus

by John Russell Fearn, Conrad G. Holt

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

Following a civil war in 1971, England is a dystopia controlled by a ruthless dictator whose fiendish schemes include turning cadavers into robots with the help of Dr. Azimov of Vienna. But the dictator's plans pale before those of Brenda Norcross, a brilliant and beautiful female industrialist - actually a bioengineered Martian super scientist in disguise - who plans to enslave the entire planet to provide breeding stock for the dying Martian race currently hiding out in the interior of Uranus.

Release date: March 31, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 85

Sample

EVER and again there arises an occasion important enough to swamp the newspaper headlines and take precedence over all television and radio programmes. Such an event was Gideon Brand’s experimental flight to the moon in 1970. Not that there was anything impracticable about trying to reach the moon: science had foretold for long enough that would come about—but on this occasion it happened to be one of the craziest of scientists who was making the initial flight.

Gideon Brand was known to be an eccentric. That he was brilliant was beyond cavil, but his theories seemed so high flown that in the sombre halls of science where only fact and proof are tolerated, he was regarded as something of a madman. And this trip to the moon was about as fantastic as anything he had so far attempted. He did not even propose to use the conventional rockets powered by atomic force, and greatly improved since the brief Atomic War of 1963. No; he was going to use some kind of degravitative system which only he could understand.

He spoke of nullifying screens, roller-blinds, repulsive shells, all manner of devices which somehow had a “Heath Robinson” flavour, and generally he conveyed the impression that he intended to commit suicide in the most elaborate fashion ever devised.

Scientists tried to dissuade him; the law brought injunctions against him on all kinds of niggling issues, but he still managed to keep a clear legal field of action. To the moon he was determined to go! And the Caretaker Government of Britain, a very inept organization after the onslaught of war, could find no way to stop him.

To fly to the moon in such a strange machine was bad enough, since most scientists were convinced he would kill himself; but when he announced that he was taking his wife and seventeen-year-old daughter with him the fat really fell in the fire! How dare he endanger other people’s lives with his crackpot invention? What right had he to take a young woman, with all her life before her, into space when every scientific theory showed that only death could result?

Up came the Women’s League, The Society for the Protection of Adolescents, the Delinquents’ Preventative Union, and a dozen other bodies, all demanding that Gideon Brand be put under lock and key, and his daughter, still under age, become the care of the State. His wife was willing to make the trip, so in her case nothing could be done.

No use. Gideon Brand’s lawyers still kept the field open, and he, his wife, and dark-haired, starry-eyed daughter appeared in countless photographs and television reviews as the three “against the stars”. So, on February 8th, 1970, the Brand projectile started for the moon, watched by television and movie cameras, and of course tens of thousands of interested spectators.

Not that any of them saw anything much. There was a blinding flash of flame, a black object hurtling into the sky of the winter afternoon—and Gideon Brand and his loved ones had vanished. No rocket exhaust, no fumes, no smoke. The business was nearly akin to a magician’s vanishing trick.

From here on, giant telescopes took up the business and succeeded in locating the Brand space projectile as it sailed triumphantly into space beyond the stratosphere. This impressive sight was relayed back to the world’s television screens and, for a time, nothing else seemed to matter except the audacity of the mad scientist who had dared to make this venture.

Then, inexplicably, the projectile disappeared! Mount Wilson, containing the biggest telescope in the world, had the projectile perfectly in focus on February 10th, two days after the machine’s departure from Earth, when it slowly faded from sight and all efforts to relocate it, even by radar beams, failed completely.

Some defect in light waves, explained Mount Wilson. Soon reappear, declared the astronomers in general. Technical hitch, commented the television engineers…. But the projectile did not reappear—and because the men and women of the world had their work and interests to pursue, Gideon Brand gradually became relegated to the unsolved mysteries department, and that was that. He never returned; his ship never reappeared, and not a hint of a radio message came out of space.

Some scientists, more thoughtful than their colleagues, spent quite a little time weighing up possible reasons for the occurrence, but, not knowing the constitution of space, they had to admit themselves beaten. It was generally agreed that space was still unfit to be travelled—and that when interplanetary travel did come it must be in rocket-propelled vehicles and not a crazy machine using incredible roller-blinds and repulsion screens. So Gideon Brand and his luckless wife and daughter faded from public memory.

In any case there were events simmering at this time which demanded far more headline space than Brand’s abortive trip to the moon. Amidst the chaos of political rivalries left over from the Atomic War a newcomer was rearing his head amongst the people—an excellent orator, a good scientist, and a magnetic personality. He had the somewhat extraordinary name of Rayburn Cloud, and was aged about thirty-five. Female teenagers declared he was handsome; men of experience dismissed him as sinister. But no matter what anybody said about him he forced them to listen. First in small back-alley meetings; then in public halls; then at mass open-air demonstrations—and because the law permits any man, no matter what his political colour, to speak freely, Rayburn Cloud yelled himself hoarse extolling the virtues of what he called “The Quest”.

“I tell you, my friends,” he shouted, at one of his big open-air meetings, “that we, the great masses of the people, have too long taken our orders from this slipshod Caretaker Government and its negligent President. What have we got out of it? Absolutely nothing! Fortunately the Atomic War was brief. The nations involved came to their senses quickly enough to prevent total ruin—but in the aftermath came this Caretaker Government, which obviously does not know what it is doing. We are bogged down with injustices, bad housing, exorbitant prices. Why do we stand for such things? Because, at root, we are a peace-loving people and don’t like making trouble. But I tell you the time has come to change all that!”

“Hear, hear,” somebody murmured in the silence; then the June night was quiet once more. The voice destined to repattern Britain spoke again.

“What has been missing in the design of British life ever since the end of the war has been a leader, my friends! A leader who will talk and act as the average man or woman talks and acts. A man who can get results instead of making useless promises: that is what is needed! I do not suggest a dictator, because that is anathema to us, but I do suggest a new President in the place of Edgar Pierce, who is at present supposed to be head of the Caretakers. I also believe that Scotland, Ireland, and Wales should be formed into separate states, with their own Governors. Away with the Caretakers! Let us have progress! Let us turn our scientific knowledge to genuine account! Let us even have the audacity of our late lamented friend Gideon Brand and challenge the powers that be!”

Rayburn Cloud was much too hoarse to continue any farther, and in any case the people were too languid with the June heat to pay much further attention. None the less, all that he had said had sunk in. He was a man with a new idea to offer, and following the disruption of war and its inevitable aftermath of muddle and mess, the people were ready for a new personality. Especially the young ones. The older ones were content with what they had. Experience had shown them that the devil you do know is better than the devil you don’t.

Rayburn Cloud collected his papers into a battered briefcase and then stepped down from the mobile platform. Mopping his face, he said “Good night” to his various comrades-in-arms and then headed through the dispersing crowd to the night marquee, where late refreshment was being served. He ordered nothing more startling than a lime juice, and retired to a corner table to sip it and muse meanwhile.

“That was a nice speech you made, Mr. Cloud.”

The young man looked up with a start from his preoccupation. Yes, the teenagers had not been far wrong. He was handsome, with unruly black hair, a straight nose, and extremely determined chin. His eyes were blue and intensely direct. These details were absorbed by the stranger who had spoken, standing now beside the table.

“Good evening,” Cloud smiled, and his personality was such that he immediately established himself as a friend.

“I’m just one of your supporters,” the newcomer explained. “Mind if I sit and talk to you for a while?”

“Only too pleased—but don’t expect me to answer back. I’m bone-dry with yelling.”

“I can understand that.” The supporter sat down at the opposite side of the table and ordered a lemonade, which he made no attempt to drink. He was square-shouldered, fiftyish, the sides of his face set in straight lines and then angling into quite the cruellest jaw Cloud had even seen. Yet he spoke pleasantly enough, though smiling seemed awkward for him. His eyes were light grey, almost tigerish in the way they pierced. Black hair showed where the soft hat had been pushed up on the moist forehead.

“My name’s Mark Dranfield,” the supporter continued. “You. . .