Force 97X

by Pel Torro, Lionel Fanthorpe, Patricia Fanthorpe

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

Synopsis

In the realm of science things are often far from what they seem. In the science of sociology this is truest of all. Those who seem to control human affairs may only be figure-heads. The real power lies in unsuspected places...sinister...alien...

Mervyn Wayne called at the offices of an apparently normal, respectable, old-established city firm and overheard intrigue of nightmare quality. He found himself a fugitive from an organisation whose ramifications extended everywhere.

Society was being master-minded by someone, or something, so irresistibly powerful that Mervyn's first reaction was hopeless fear. Gradually, however, he learnt how to distinguish allies from organisation men and began building a counter-group of his own.

Release date: July 31, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Writing as Bron Fane

Blue Juggernaut

Last Man on Earth

Nemesis

Rodent Mutation

Softly by Moonlight

Somewhere Out There

Suspension

The Intruders

The Macabre Ones

U.F.O. 517

Unknown Destiny

Writing as John E. Muller

A 1000 Years On

Beyond the Void

Beyond Time

Crimson Planet

Dark Continuum

Forbidden Planet

Infinity Machine

Mark of the Beast

Micro Infinity

Orbit One

Out of the Night

Perilous Galaxy

Phenomena X

Reactor XK9

Special Mission

Spectre of Darkness

Survival Project

The Day the World Died

The Exorcists

The Eye of Karnak

The Man From Beyond

The Man Who Conquered Time

The Mind Makers

The Negative Ones

The Return of Zeus

The Ultimate Man

The Uninvited

The Venus Venture

The X-Machine

Uranium 235

Vengeance of Siva

Writing as Karl Zeigfried

Android

Atomic Nemesis

Barrier 346

Escape to Infinity

Gods of Darkness

No Way Back

Projection Infinity

Radar Alert

The Girl from Tomorrow

The World That Never Was

Walk Through Tomorrow

World of the Future

World of Tomorrow

Zero Minus X

Writing as L. P. Kenton

Destination Moon

Writing as Lee Barton

The Planet Seekers

The Shadow Man

The Unseen

Writing as Leo Brett

Black Infinity

Exit Humanity

Face in the Night

From Realms Beyond

March of the Robots

Mind Force

Nightmare

Power Sphere

The Alien Ones

The Faceless Planet

The Forbidden

The Immortals

The Microscopic Ones

They Never Come Back

Writing as Lionel Roberts

Cyclops in the Sky

Dawn of the Mutants

Flame Goddess

The Face of X

The In-World

The Last Valkyrie

The Synthetic Ones

Time Echo

Writing as Neil Thanet

Beyond the Veil

The Man Who Came Back

Writing as Pel Torro

Beyond the Barrier of Space (AKA Formula 29X)

Exiled in Space

Force 97X

Frozen Planet

Galaxy 666

Legion of the Lost

Man of Metal

Space No Barrier

The Face of Fear

The Last Astronaut

The Phantom Ones

The Return

The Strange Ones

The Timeless Ones

Through The Barrier

World of the Gods

Writing as R. L. Fanthorpe

Alien from the Stars

Asteroid Man

Doomed World

Fiends

Flame Mass

Hand of Doom

Hyperspace

Negative Minus

Neuron World

Out of the Darkness

Satellite

Space Fury

Space-Borne

The Golden Chalice

The Triple Man

The Unconfined

The Waiting World

The Watching World

Writing as Thornton Bell

Space Trap

Writing as Trebor Thorpe

Five Faces of Fear

Lightning World

Writing as Victor La Salle

Menace from Mercury

Mervyn Wayne

“TODAY’S the day then, mate?” The voice of the screw was not unfriendly. It might, by a stretch of the imagination, have been almost an amiable thing. Prison warders were not, however, selected for amiability. They were chosen for fairness, toughness, courage, resourcefulness and the ability to do a difficult job with cheerfulness and tenacity. A job requiring the stoicism of a Greek philosopher, the compassion of an early Christian saint, and the discipline of a sergeant-major. Not every man lived up to the standards of the job, but Martin Conroy did not fall far short. He unlocked the door of Mervyn Wayne’s cell and escorted the cheerful looking prisoner to the Governor’s office. Wayne could have done a lot better, thought Conroy. He had been in his job a long time, and he got to recognize types. Wayne wasn’t a run-of-the-mill criminal at all. That made it doubly tragic, thought the warder. He wondered how long it would be before the man they were about to release came back. Wayne had made a number of trips to and from the jail. Some of the ‘from’ trips had been made officially, others unofficially. The unofficial ones had resulted in ultimate and inevitable re-capture. The official ones had given Wayne a few months of scheming freedom before something went adrift and brought him back inside. Yet it was difficult not to like the fellow, thought Martin Conroy. Wayne was in his early thirties, tall, dark, good-looking in an Italian-American way. His eyes flashed brightly, despite the internal pallor the incarceration had brought to his cheeks. Seven days in the fresh air would put that right, thought Conway. He looked at the broad shoulders, and trim, athletic build of the man he was escorting to the Governor’s office for the last time on this stay. Mervyn Wayne could have been a professional athlete, a Guards’ officer, or one of the international play-boy set, mused Conroy. He was a man with a flair for gracious living, and it had been one of the little ironies of Providence to see to it that he was born into a very poor family. The warder’s thoughts were cut short by the advent of the Governor’s door. He knocked respectfully, flung the door open with an almost militaristic precision and ushered Wayne inside. Mervyn moved in smartly, saluted the Governor, and stood to attention.

“You are being released at mid-day.” Clements had been a prison Governor for a very long time. He was a thin, tall, very austere man, devoid of the milk of human kindness, but devoid also of fear and favour. Prisoners and staff alike respected and trusted Henry Clements because of his sheer inflexibility. He was as neutral as the elements about them. He had no more prejudice than a gale, or a thunderstorm, yet most of the prisoners, and the majority of the staff, would have rather bearded the worst of nature’s rages than fallen on the wrong side of the rapier thin prison Governor.

“You’ve got full remission for good conduct, Wayne; a man of your intelligence would do, of course. I’m not going to preach you an unnecessary sermon. I expect the padre has already preached you several necessary ones!” There was just a trace of dry, ironic humour in the austerity of the crisp, precise voice.

“The padre has spoken to me, sir, yes,” agreed Wayne. The Governor made a gesture with his hand as though dismissing that point.

“I hope I shan’t see you back here,” he said coldly. “You are too good a man to fight against society all the time. Can’t you find something useful to do for us?” That ‘us’ was one of the most personal remarks that Henry Clements had made to a prisoner for a long time. “You’re not a moron, like so many of your unfortunate cell mates; surely that brain of yours will tell you this time that only a fool goes against society persistently. The odds are against the individual, whether he be a criminal nonconformist, or an idealist nonconformist. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That in itself is adequate proof of my estimate of your intellect,” said the Governor, drily. “All right. You can pick up your possessions in the normal way. Conroy will see to you, and you may leave on the stroke of noon, not before. Although I don’t necessarily believe in the caprices of fortune, I’m sure you will understand when I wish you ‘Good luck’.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mervyn saluted again, smartly, though he didn’t really know why, and turned at Conroy’s bidding to leave the Governor’s office. The corridor looked all too familiar as he marched back to collect his gear. He went through the routine procedure of a prisoner being discharged, and at eleven-thirty precisely there was a tap at the door of his cell.

“May I come in, Mr. Wayne?”

There was only one man on the strength who called convicts either by their Christian names, or did them the honour of adding ‘Mr.’ to their surnames.

George Brodey looked like a cross between Friar Tuck and a plump middle-aged actor who enjoyed playing the role of a good-natured parson. The one thing the Rev. Brodey did not resemble was an amiable priest—which was a pity, because that was exactly what he was.

Mervyn Wayne opened the door and stood diffidently beside it. Conroy was on duty just outside. Wayne grinned.

“I shan’t be daft enough to make a break for it now,” he said softly. “I learnt about that during my previous visit, and I’m not likely to throw away my remission for the sake of getting out into the English climate twenty minutes earlier than the law has decreed I may!”

Conroy grinned, and moved a little farther back from the door.

“Have a seat,” Wayne smiled at the plump, jovial padre. How a man could spend so much of his life working—and working extremely hard—among the miserable jungles of the minds of prisoners, Mervyn didn’t really know. Only the insensitive, or the purely strong-minded could have kept it up. Whatever George Brodey was, he wasn’t insensitive. That was the impression you got the minute he came into your cell. Brodey understood. He understood the bitterness that welled up in a convicted man. He understood the chagrin, the impatience, the loathing of the society that had done this to him. He understood the ‘anti-’ feeling, the seething, helpless frustration and anger. You felt as though these things went out from you, struck Brodey’s sensitivity, and were overwhelmed by it. He overcame them like an antidote overcoming a poison. After the hot angry bitterness had been absorbed, Brodey would talk to a prisoner as he would have talked freely, naturally and sensibly, with no affectation and no pretension, to any other parishioner under his pastoral care.

“So you are leaving us in a few minutes?” Brodey looked at his watch and sounded genuinely sad. “Will you be keeping in touch at all?”

“I expect you’ve heard far too many men say they would, and never heard from them again,” murmured Mervyn Wayne.

“Well, we do get a certain amount of disappointment you know.” Brodey fished in his pocket and produced a wafer of chewing gum. He proffered it to Mervyn Wayne and fished in his pocket for another for himself. The pocket, like Brodey’s study, if only Wayne could have seen it, was a kind of organized chaos. Bits of pencil, matches, chewing gum, bus tickets, keys and money, were all conglomerated together into a heterogeneous mass. Brodey finally selected another piece of gum, unwrapped the wafer carefully, and thrust it between his teeth.

“That’s better,” he smiled, as the chewing gum began to soften. “Very soothing, I find, and good for conversation.”

Wayne raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t really want to talk about chewing gum when you’ve only got fifteen minutes, do you?”

The question was tactfully framed.

“No, I don’t,” agreed Brodey, “but I’m not going to force anything on you that you don’t want to hear. I’m waiting for you to give me the lead.”

“What exactly did you want to talk about?” asked Wayne.

“You and your future, mainly,” said the plump cleric. “If you go to the Prisoners’ Aid Society we’ll be able to fix you up with a good job …”

Mervyn Wayne shook his head,

“Sorry! I mean that, I’m genuinely sorry …”

“If you try any wildcat schemes, like you did last time, you’ll be back again, and you won’t be quite such a charming young man when you come out!” said the padre. “I don’t like to put it coldly and bluntly, but you’ll get seven years the next time, you mark my words.”

“I do not intend to get picked up again,” returned Wayne with a certain grimness, “and I think seven years is a conservative estimate; it would be nearer ten, and it may be preventive detention, too!”

“Hmmm.” George Brodey rubbed his chin. “You don’t want P.D., do you?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“Then why don’t you find something else to do? Surely you don’t get any satisfaction out of confidence tricks? What are you trying to prove?”

“I suppose I’m trying to prove that I am about two per cent more intelligent than the majority of my victims,” answered Wayne.

“Well, you don’t need to trick them out of their money, in order to prove that!” replied Brodey. “I’d have thought that was very insignificant proof. You haven’t got to look very far in society to find money sticking like glue to the hands of the most complete fools whoever enjoyed their liberty. The possession of money, or the acquisition of money is no indication of intelligence. I’d have thought a man with your brain would have known that.”

“This is rather the line that the Governor used,” returned Mervyn.

“Sorry. But I do wish you’d think it over. Here’s the address. The telephone number’s on the back. Reverse it if you like. I won’t mind.”

“I’ll keep the card.”

“There is one more thing. I don’t want to thrust it on you. If you feel a word of prayer would be any help to you before you go out, just say the word, and we’ll pray together.”

“If it’s any consolation to you,” said Wayne, gently, “if most people suggested that to me, I would laugh, but it doesn’t sound funny coming from you.”

“It shouldn’t sound funny coming from anybody,” said Brodey.

“It does, nevertheless!” retorted Wayne.

“Aye, I know. I’ve noticed that meself at times.”

The prison padre lapsed occasionally into a mild Yorkshire dialect which added the touch of simple, homespun sincerity to his remarks.

His face and his words would have given an impression of being completely genuine, no matter in what dialect they had been spoken, but the homely Yorkshire accent seemed to add the final touch of absolute authenticity and veracity. He felt that George Brodey would not have been physically capable of telling a lie, or of giving a man misleading advice. Before Mervyn Wayne quite realized what was happening he was kneeling on the floor of the cell beside the padre, and they were saying old, familiar words; but the words despite their age and their familiarity, still had a new sound, a new ring of truth to them. Brodey got up first, and looked at his watch.

“I think thee’d best be going lad, or you’ll miss the bus.” He held out his hand.

Wayne felt a touch of sincere regret, not at leaving the building in which he had been incarcerated, nor ninety-nine per cent of its organization, but there was something regrettable involved in leaving George Brodey.

A few more minutes passed, then Mervyn Wayne was through the great iron-studded door that had bolted. . .