Dark Boundaries

by John Russell Fearn, Paul Lorraine

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

Synopsis

When Commander Herries of the Space Line began to sell the water of Mars as a 'potion' for lengthening life he had no idea that he was going to create the world's greatest thirst and produce havoc among the two social grades of Earth - the Inelligentsia and the Normals. But produce it he did. Among the confusion thus produced one man thinks clearly for his own ends - Vance Unthra, the leading scientist of the world - and he sees in the crisis which has hit Earth a way to be rid of all those who do not measure up to what he thinks as an intellectual standard. By his orders two synthetic worlds are created - Alpha and Omega - and to these are ruthlessly evacuated all the victims of the Martian water, there to rebuild there shattered fortunes and never cross the 'Dark Boundaries' which exist between those worlds and Earth. Despite his careful planning, however, Unthra makes one mistake. In destroying the power of the Martian water over the evacuated thousands he miscalculates the strength of cosmic radiation on Omega with the result that the leader - the Controllix - of this world, Sylvia Grantham, becomes a far greater power in the grand scheme of things than her former lover, Dexter Carfax. Through the machinations of the wily Unthra open hostility breaks out between Dexter Carfax and the girl, and eventually their worlds are destroyed through the influence of a deadly chain reaction 'disease' from the Great Red Spot of Jupoter. Both of them, however, through the various experiences they undergo, hold to one objective - to be avenged on Vance Unthra for his viciousness.

Release date: September 30, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 117

Sample

The two men at the observation port stood watching the lonely figure of Commander Herries as he ploughed steadily through the everlasting waste of sand. He was the only figure in the wilderness of the Martian desert and behind him loomed the pale blue backdrop of the invariably cloudless sky.

“Sheer waste of time if you ask me!”

It was the navigator who spoke, propped against the huge switch panel of the freighter spaceship. Lean-jawed, cold-eyed, he could not for the life of him understand these detours to Mars—for this was the second time Herries had deliberately gone off the track and insisted on visiting this extinct world. Normally the freighter carried cargo between Venus and Earth, hence it necessitated a detour of some forty million miles to Mars and another forty million to get back to Earth again.

“No wonder he’s always on the carpet for being behind time,” the first mate commented, indulging the rare luxury of a pipe of tobacco.

“Not so much behind time,” the navigator corrected. “He sees to that, even if he half kills us with the acceleration to make up speed … I just can’t get the point and he’s tighter than a Venusian clam when you try and question him. What the devil can there be in this glorified Sahara which so interests him?”

“Time we found out, Jeff.” There was a grim look on the first mate’s face. “And we’re going to. Dammit, we owe it to the rest of the crew.”

There was a certain truth in this. The six other men comprising the freighter’s crew were in the rocket-hold at the moment, idling the time and cursing every moment that they were away from Earth and an over-earned spell of leave. Commander Herries, apparently, was behaving in a way entirely contrary to the regulations of the Interplanetary Commission in that he was not making his journeys “by the shortest route in the quickest time.”

Then he came through the airlock into the control room, breathing somewhat heavily from the thinness of the air he had been sucking into his lungs. Mars was always a trial for an unprotected explorer, but the attenuation of the air was somewhat compensated for by the lesser gravity which meant less physical strain. Evidently Commander Herries considered the inconvenience well worth while for there was a satisfied smile on his craggy face.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said briefly, unslinging a small specimen case from his shoulder, “we can start immediately—and thank you for bearing with my … whim.”

The sardonic inflection in the last word almost stung First Mate Jackson into the questions he had been threatening; but he suddenly thought better of it. It was a different matter to threaten interrogation and then do it face to face with Herries. He was a rugged, unapproachable man, inflexible in purpose, inscrutable in motive.

“You delay, mister,” he commented, glancing at Jackson. “You should be aware as I am that every moment is precious. We are exactly seven and a half hours behind time.”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson agreed mechanically, and turned to the intercom. “Full load for take off,” he ordered.

“Full load it is,” echoed the voice of the rocketeer, and in a lower tone, “About time, too.”

Herries caught the words but he did not say anything. He seemed too interested in studying the inside of the specimen case now on the window bench.

“Your course set for Earth, Mr. Baines?” he asked the navigator, without looking at him.

“All set, sir. If we follow the Sixth Spacial Quadrant we can have a clear run to Earth without interference from the busier space lanes.”

“Naturally …” Herries glanced about him briefly and seemed to become aware of his duties. With a touch of impatience in his movements he crossed to the control panel and moved the switch which automatically closed the triple sealing vents and then the main air-lock. This done he snapped on the intercom.

“What’s your load, Mr. Hawkins?”

“Hundred and ten super, skip.”

“Right. Open up. Full blast underjets.”

“Full blast it is, sir.”

Herries spread his feet apart, and waited. Then at the signal from the rocket-hold he closed the First Control, which was the beginning of what the seasoned spacemen called Lucifer’s Lift—or, more plainly, the initial acceleration always demanded in the take-off. It could be sheer anguish or just intense strain according to the mass attraction of the planet being departed from. In this case Mars was not such a serious proposition, but none the less as Herries built up speed upon speed he began to sweat visibly and the two men with him also stood with their feet braced and their faces drained of every vestige of colour.

So to the Fourth Control, by which time the freighter had reached the maximum velocity necessary for the take-off. With her underjets flaming she left the empty deserts of the red planet far below and swept outwards into the everlasting gulf of space—into the naked glare of the prominence-girdled sun and the merciless glitter of the stars.

“Maintain on fifteen atmospheres,” Herries ordered through the intercom.

“Say, skip, that’s a killing pressure——”

“You have your orders, Mr. Hawkins. We have time to make up.”

“Fifteen atmospheres it is, sir.”

Herries switched off, the blaze of the sun catching the resolute lines of his face for a moment. He began moving, albeit with effort for the load of increasing velocity was pretty fierce; then he met the eyes of First Mate Jackson looking at him bitterly.

“Take over, Mr. Jackson,” Herries ordered. “I have the log to make up in my quarters. Maintain fifteen atmospheres for first two million then cut to constant velocity and automatic control.”

“Very good, sir.” His lips tight, the first mate turned to the big switchboard, then as he saw Herries picking up his specimen box he suddenly swung. “There’s—something I wish to ask, sir.”

“Yes?” Herries raised an eyebrow and his bright blue eyes were anything but compromising.

“These detours to Mars … Are they serving any useful purpose?”

“A strange question, Mister, to address to a commander.”

“I’m sorry if I seem disrespectful, sir, but I am one of the crew, and the highest in authority next to yourself. Therefore you may take it that I am speaking on behalf of all of us.”

“Watch your controls, Mister, or else have Mr. Baines take over for you.”

Jackson made an irritable movement at Herries’ implacable devotion to duty, then Baines moved to his side.

“Carry on, Dick,” he murmured. “I’ll deputise for you here.”

Relieved of the necessity of handling the controls Jackson moved forward clumsily against the heavy gravity and faced Herries across the window table. The Commander remained where he was, the specimen case held by the strap in his hand.

“I assume, Mister, that you are puzzled by this?” he asked, and gave the strap a jerk.

“Definitely I am, sir. We all are! On the last trip out to Venus we detoured in exactly the same fashion. We’re fully entitled to an explanation because it is not in our contract to have to wander this far off course just to suit your—whim. I think that was the word, sir?”

Commander Herries grinned crookedly. “You’ve got your nerve, Mister, I’ll hand you that—questioning your Commander’s motives! No, don’t interrupt me! You’re quite justified, and I admit that you are. I was intending to explain, anyway, so you have merely anticipated me. When we have gone on to automatic control and can take it easy for a while I want you, Mr. Baines, and Mr. Hawkins to come to my cabin. I have a very interesting proposition to put before you.”

“Very well, sir,” Jackson agreed stiffly. “And I hope it will also explain the Martian detours?”

“You have my assurance.” And, still grinning enigmatically to himself, Herries left the control room, specimen box still in his hand, and made his laborious way down the central passage to his own private quarters. The first mate looked after him and then glanced at Baines.

“Any ideas, Jeff?”

“None. Better leave him to unburden himself.”

So Jackson advised Hawkins over the intercom that he would be wanted in the skipper’s cabin once “automatic” was achieved—as it was about an hour later. When this happened the crew was more or less able to rest, the vessel hurtling through free space at constant velocity with its power plant shut off. All that was needed was for one man to be alert for the alarms which would sound at the presence of any unwanted interplanetary body—a most unlikely happening in the Mars-Earth run.

Jackson, as first mate, headed the way to Herries’ cabin, knocking lightly on the door.

“Come in, gentlemen, please.”

The view in the cabin was unexpected. On the centre table stood an unopened bottle of champagne and four empty glasses. Herries was standing by the small circular window, his bullet head crowned by the diadem of stars outside.

“Sit down, gentlemen, please. Make yourselves comfortable.”

The trio looked at each other, shut the door, and then obeyed instructions. It was quite impossible to fathom Herries’ mood. He had never been known to depart so completely from formality as now.

“Were it not for our limited air supply I would grant you permission to smoke,” he said. “However, as spacemen we must put up with these privations …”

Turning, he picked up the specimen box from a nearby shelf and brought it over to the table. Then, with something of the air of a magician exhibiting a trick he flung back the lid so all three men at the table could see the box’s interior. To their surprise there was a glass globe within the box, and to the globe were attached minute air pumps, operating from a small, compact battery. This was not all. Inside the globe was an object like a butterfly, fluttering with all the energy of a prisoner trying to escape.

“Surprised, gentlemen?” Herries asked dryly. “I rather thought you might be. You behold before you the only known specimen of Martian life—the dalokif, to give it its proper name from the Martian records. And it definitely does only, live for a day, under normal circumstances. Mars’ rotation not being very different from Earth’s we can assume a Martian day to be about as long as ours. Yet, gentlemen, I tell you this! This particular insect was alive on our last detour to Mars, and is still alive now.”

“Very interesting,” Jackson commented, in a dull voice, and glanced under his eyes at his comrades. It was plain they were thinking as he was: that the tough Commander Herries was buckling under cosmosis, that insidious brain-disease begotten of the dangerous radiations forever streaming through space and sometimes affecting the strongest minds.

“I am not,” Herries said deliberately, sitting down, “a bug-hunter! That is what you are thinking, isn’t it?”

“Well—er—” Jackson hesitated and cleared his throat.

“I,” Herries continued, “am an utterly unscrupulous man, a tough, hard man of the spaceways, as most of us are who have to wander everlastingly through these frightful abysses between worlds. It was the very thought of having to do this journeying until being pensioned off that prompted me to look for a way of making a lot of money quickly. I found it. There it is, in the box.”

“A Martian butterfly is going to make you a fortune?” the navigator asked blankly. “You’ll excuse me, sir, if I can’t follow your reasoning!”

“Give me time to explain,” Herries growled. “And I would add that formalities can be dropped for the moment. We are seated here as four men considering a business proposition. Say what you like, call me what you like. We are no longer commander and crew for the moment. And you can feel grateful, too! I’ve singled you men out to hear me because I believe you’re as unscrupulous as I am.”

“Thanks,” Jackson said dryly.

“I mean it! Don’t forget your records can be seen any time, otherwise you wouldn’t be in the space service on a lousy old freighter like this. Only the tramps run the tramps—remember that. Each one of you here has an unsavoury record, hence your departure to this—this Foreign Legion of the spaceways, this monotonous plying back and forth with Venusian fruits and wood pulp. So, then, hear me …”

Herries sat back in his chair and continued, “Mars, as we all know, is not a recognised visiting place for space liners or freighters. What tours are made in this incipient stage of space travel development are usually to Venus—young, savage, and terrible but interesting to a tourist if not to a settler. In other words, Mars has been ignored as useless. Right?”

The other men nodded.

“Very well then. Have any of you ever improved your knowledge by reading Crawford’s ‘History of Mars’? He was the first man to reach Mars, remember, in the late nineteen eighties, and because of that he was able to find records of Martian life and civilisation, all of which has now crumbled into those everlasting deserts of ferrous oxide dust.”

“I’ve never read Crawford thoroughly,” Jackson said, and the other two men shook their heads negatively.

“Neither did anybody else, otherwise they would have done as I did—cash in on what Crawford had to say.” Herries hunched forward earnestly in his chair. “Crawford, besides being a good spaceman was also a scholar, and he succeeded in transcribing a great deal of information from the crumbling records the vanished Martians had left behind. It was the grim story of a fight against inevitable doom—the slow diminution of air, the gradual evaporation of water, and no planet suited the Martians, to which they might have migrated. To cut it short they used the last resort of science to prolong their fated existence: they threw everything into an effort to find something to prolong longevity, and they found it.”

“You mean eternal. . .