All the signals seemed set at "go." For Earl Dumarest had found people who believed in the legendary Earth. He had found the coordinates of the Sun and its attendant planets. And he would have the starship with a faithful crew of colonists for whom Earth was the paradise of their dreams. But before he could reach that ideal moment, Dumarest would have to fight his way out of a demonic Cyclan trap as well as unravel a very tricky web of planetary conspiracy. Only if he could achieve those desperate goals would he be able to set out on what he hoped would be the final lap of his long galactic trek . . . (First published 1982)
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
157
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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Footsteps of Angels (2004) (previously unpublished work written c.1988)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Pandora’s Box (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)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Starslave (2010) (previously unpublished work written 1984)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Temple of Death (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)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)
With a jerk he was awake, sweating from dreams of blood and death and remembered pain. The walls of the cabin seemed to swirl
in the faint glow of artificial dawn, then it was over and Dumarest sat on the edge of his bunk, sucking air into his lungs,
conscious of the sweat dewing face and naked torso. The product of nightmare born of fatigue induced by too many watches maintained
too long.
And yet?
He leaned back to rest his shoulders against the bulkhead, aware of the metal, the bunk on which he sat, the ship in which
they were contained. It enclosed him like a thing alive, the pulse of the engine transmitted by hull and stanchions emitting
a whispering susurration which hung like a fading ghost echo in the air. Beneath his questing fingers he felt the reassuring
tingle which told of the Erhaft field in being. The ship, wrapped in its cocoon, was still hurtling between the stars. It
made a sealed world of warmth and security against the hostile environment of the void.
Yet something was wrong.
Dumarest sensed it as he looked around the cabin; the familiar tension which warned of impending danger. A prickling of the
skin and an unease which he had learned never to ignore. He rose, reaching for his clothing, donning pants, boots and tunic
to stand tall in neutral grey. From beneath his pillow he lifted his knife, steel flashing as he thrust the nine inches of curved and pointed steel into his right boot. Here, in his cabin on his own ship, he should be safe, but old
habits died hard.
Ysanne reared upright as he opened her door, arms lifting, lips parted in a smile.
“Earl! How nice of you to come. How did you guess I’d been hoping you’d join me?” Her smiled changed into a frown as she saw
his expression. “Trouble?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“The field?” She touched the bulkhead, repeating his earlier test, registering her relief at what she found. “It’s still active.
We aren’t drifting, thank God. So what’s the matter?”
“I can’t tell. It’s just a feeling I have.” Dumarest looked at the woman, at her hair, her face, the smooth contours of her
body bared by the fallen cover. Looked and saw nothing but the specialist she was. “Join Andre and make a check. I’ll be with
Jed.”
Craig didn’t move as Dumarest entered the engine room. The engineer sat slumped before his console, a bottle standing to one
side, a vial containing tablets close to his hand. A broad man, no longer young, rust-colored hair cropped to form a helmet
over his skull. The scar tissue ruining his face gleamed with reflected light.
“Jed?”
“I wasn’t asleep!” Craig reared as Dumarest touched his shoulder. “I was just easing my head—the damn thing aches like fury.”
Dumarest said nothing, noting the sweat dewing the man’s face, the rapidity of his breathing. Lifting the bottle he tasted
the contents, finding water sweetened and laced with citrus. The tablets were to ease pain.
He said, “I want a complete check of all installations. Start with the generator.”
“It’s sweet.” Craig gestured at the panel. “See? Every light in the green. No variation to speak of. Which is just as it should
be. It’s a new unit, Earl. And I supervised the installation myself.”
The truth and checks proved its efficiency. As they did the power supply, the monitors, the governors and relays, the servo-mechanisms.
Batrun called from the control room. “Ysanne told me of your fears, Earl. Have you found anything wrong?”
“Not as yet, Andre. You?”
“All is functioning as it should be. Maybe you had a nightmare. Ysanne—” Her voice took over from the captain’s. “All clear
as far as I can make out, Earl. But we’re getting close to the Chandorah. We’ll have to change course if we hope to avoid
it.” She added, musingly, “Maybe that’s what your hunch is all about. The Chandorah’s trouble enough for any ship. You knew
it was close and it could have played on your mind.”
Maybe, but Dumarest didn’t think so. He said, “How’s your head?”
“It feels heavy. Why?”
“Andre?”
“A slight ache. Pills will cure it.”
The pills should have cured the engineer’s, but even as Dumarest turned from the intercom he saw the man help himself to more.
Headaches—his own temples had begun to throb, lassitude, excessive warmth—why had he been so blind?
“The air,” he said. “Something’s wrong with the air. Let’s check the plant.”
Access lay behind a panel lying in a compartment thick with crude adornment. Graffiti showed in a profusion of images, hieroglyphs,
names. Scratches incised by a variety of hands; bored mercenaries, passengers, crewmen, poor wretches held captive before
being sold into slavery. In its time the Erce had carried them all.
The panel itself was five feet high, three broad, edged with hexagonal bolts. On it some unknown artist had drawn a picture
of grotesque obscenity. It blurred as Dumarest heaved on his wrench, sweat stinging his eyes, the picture taking on a new
and different form. The writhing limbs became a surround for the central figure, the wantonly cruel face altering to adopt
the stark outlines of a skull. An optical illusion reminding the viewer that things are not always what they seem.
Craig grunted as the panel swung open. “I’ll make the check. There isn’t room for two and I know what I’m doing.” He fumbled
at the edge of the opening and light flared to illuminate cleats and grills bearing small strands of colored material which
fluttered in the wind created by the passage of air. “We’ve circulation at least. Give me time and I’ll make a full report.”
Dumarest said, “Just find out what’s wrong.”
He waited as the engineer delved into the plant, hearing scrapes and metallic sounds, a muffled cursing. When he returned
he was blunt.
“It’s dead, Earl. The fans are working but the exchangers are useless. We’re down to negative efficiency. It’s the catalysts,”
he explained. “You know how they work. Air is circulated through the exchangers and wastes are removed; dust, foul odors,
all the rest of it. The catalysts take care of the oxygen content. Ours don’t.”
“Repairs?”
“Sure—as soon as I get replacements.”
No solution in the present circumstances. Dumarest said, “Can’t something be done with what we have? The units rebuilt or
reconditioned?”
For answer Craig held out a thing of plastic and metal; it was shaped, fitted with vanes, set with holes, rimmed with frets
now pitted and scarred. A catalyst unit now almost unrecognizable as such.
“The rest are about the same.”
Useless even for scrap. “How long, Jed?”
“Can we last?” Craig frowned, thinking, one hand rising to touch the scar along his face. “Not long,” he decided. “Call it
a matter of days—a week at the most. That’s using all resources. We’ll have to land, Earl. And soon.”
That decision was backed by Ysanne when she joined Dumarest in the salon with her charts and almanacs. “With only a week’s
air we’ve little choice. We can reach Aschem or Trube. Aschem is the closest. We can make it in good time.”
He said, “If we hadn’t discovered the breakdown for, say, a couple more days where would we have had to land?”
“Aschem.” She didn’t hesitate. “It’s on our line of flight.”
And, on Aschem, the Cyclan would be waiting.
Dumarest was certain of it. The stale air would have left them no choice as to destination and, but for his instinct, the breakdown
wouldn’t have been discovered. The headaches would have been put down to excessive fatigue; the lassitude the same; the sweating
an added inconvenience. The build-up of carbon dioxide would have been an insidious poison dulling the very intelligence needed
to discover it.
Sabotage—the incident reeked of it, but he said nothing.
“Earl?” Ysanne stared at him, frowning. “We have to pick one or the other,” she reminded. “Do I change course for Trube?”
“No.”
“But—”
“We maintain our present course.” He wanted to do the unexpected. To avoid the waiting trap. He said, “Jed was too pessimistic,
we can make the air last longer than a week. And we can do without replacement parts for a while. All we need is a world with
breathable air. It’s up to you to find us one.”
“I’m a navigator,” she said tightly. “Not a miracle worker. And, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re heading into the Chandorah.”
The region was rife with danger for any vessel venturing too close. The very radiance which gave the stars their splendor
filled space with roiling forces; surging waves of radiation when caught and guided by etheric currents cojoined to form nodes
of gravitational flux and areas of violent destruction. These vortexes could take a ship and twist it into a parody of its
original shape. The energies would turn metal into incandescent vapor, flesh and bone into a fuming gas.
She said, when he made no comment, “Do we have any choice?”
“No.”
“I’m remembering it’s your neck too,” she said. “And I can guess why you don’t want to land on Aschem. The Cyclan. I know
they’re after you and, one day, I might be told why.” She looked at her hand, clenched to form a fist as it rested on a chart.
“One day—when you trust me enough.”
That knowledge she was better without. Dumarest said, quietly, “Can you do it? Find us a world with air we can tank?”
“In the Chandorah? In a week?” Her shrug was expressive. “I hope to God it’s enough!”
There had been no obsequies. The incident had been handled by the Cyclan with the cold efficiency which was its pride and
power. Elge was dead, his body and brain reduced to a pinch of ash, and the only regret possible was that the once-keen intelligence
which had lifted him so high was irrevocably lost. Now he was nothing but a notation in the data banks and a new Cyber prime would take his place.
Himself? Avro considered it as he left the chamber where he had supervised the disposal. He was suited for the position; a
judgment based on intellectual assessment and not on pride. He had all the needed attributes and his record was free of taint.
From a young child, as a new inductee, later as an acolyte, then as a cyber, he had worked hard and well and achieved maximum
rating. Now he calculated his chances, using his trained skill to evaluate the facts and to extrapolate the most probable
sequence of events.
He would be among those selected for consideration by the Council to fill the vacant office—the probability was as close to
certainty as anything could be. He would be chosen above all others aside from one—and Marle would be the other prospect.
The probability of his being chosen over the other was in the order of….
“Master!” The figure in the scarlet robe broke into his introspection as the cyber claimed his attention. “The Council summons
you to appear before them. You will follow me into their presence.”
The ritual was loaded with ancient associations. It was born of the need of the Council to remind any future cyber prime that
it and not he was the true power of the Cyclan. This check would hold wild ambition in rein or prevent deviation from the
master plan, a proven necessity, as so recently demonstrated. If Elge had not been eliminated, if the madness which had afflicted
his mind had been allowed to flower unchecked, the result would have been chaos.
But, while remaining sane and eff. . .
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