Kings of Space

by WE Johns

Genres: YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

When Group-Captain Timothy 'Tiger' Clinton and his son Rex take a holiday in Scotland, they expect to spend time in the great outdoors.

Instead, lost in the fog while deer-stalking, they find themselves at the door of a mysterious, lonely castle, the home of a brilliant Professor. A brilliant Professor who has been building something incredible . . . a spaceship.

Recruited to the Professor's schemes, Tiger and Rex conquer the newest frontier - SPACE.

These classic space stories by the legendary creator of Biggles are perfect for fans of pulp science fiction romps and classic Star Trek!

Release date: November 8, 2022

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

Group-Captain Timothy Clinton, RAF (retired) climbed slowly and with infinite caution to the rim of the escarpment, and raising his head an inch at a time peered through the fringe of herbage at the broad expanse of rock and moss and purple heather that lay beyond. Only his eyes moved now as they surveyed, hill by hill and corrie by corrie, the bogs and burns and beetling crags that made a picture of a typical Scottish deer forest. Suddenly they stopped. With movements so slow as to be hardly perceptible he drew up and focused the spyglass that he carried. For perhaps a minute he remained thus, motionless, eye to the instrument. Then, with actions as slow and deliberate as those of his ascent, he allowed his body to slide back below the level of the skyline. Wetting a finger he held it up for a few seconds to test the wind, withdrew it, and continued his descent towards a ledge on which a boy was crouching, watching him, a rifle in his hands.

To a stranger it would have been evident at once that they were blood relations. Both were tall, with the lean physique and clear skins that come from hard exercise in the open air. Both had the same steady grey eyes and fair hair, although that of the man was beginning to grey at the temples. Both had the same firm mouth and purposeful chin. It would have been apparent, too, from their behaviour when they met, that there was a close understanding between them. They were, in fact, father and son, spending a deer-stalking holiday in the lonely mountains of Inverness-shire.

The stalk on which Rex Clinton and his father were now engaged had already occupied them for nine hours, three of which had been taken up by the long climb to the forest. In that time they had been alternately soaked by storms sweeping in from the Atlantic and blistered by a burning sun. Once, two hours earlier, they had nearly been within shot of their quarry, a big ‘royal’, but a tricky slant of wind had betrayed them, and the herd, of which the great twelve-pointer was the leader, had moved to higher ground.

Eight miles of heavy going now lay between the stalkers and their lodge; the mellow evening light was becoming deceptive; they were showing signs of wear and tear; failure now would mean that the stag had been too clever for them, and all that remained would be the long plod home. They had started while the stars were still in the sky. The stars would be overhead again long before they could reach their lodge.

Timothy Clinton, nicknamed ‘Tiger’, had been in Bomber Command during the war, and the name had stuck as service nicknames do.

He joined his son on the ledge and smiled encouragement. ‘He’s there,’ he whispered. ‘There are five stags and about a dozen hinds, but you can’t mistake him. I’ve counted his points. He’s a royal all right.’

‘Good!’

‘You’ll have to be careful. That same old hind is on the watch, and from the way she keeps tossing her head I fancy she’s suspicious.’

‘How far away are they?’

‘They’re wide – six hundred yards, I’d say.’

‘Can I get nearer?’

‘You’d better try. It’s too late to risk a long shot. There’s no time left to follow up a wounded beast. You’d better be quick. The wind’s backing to the north and cold air will mean mist. Look at the Ben.’

Rex glanced at the peak that towered above them and saw that the top was already hiding its face behind a grey veil. ‘I’ll get off,’ he announced.

‘For a start, make for the big rock about forty yards half right. I’ll watch from here.’

Rex, who had had two seasons stalking with his father during the holidays since his mother had died three years before, knew that this was the critical moment, the opportunity for which all their energies had been expended. Not only would he need the skill he had acquired to get nearer to an animal which is well aware that upon eternal vigilance its life depends, but he would need luck, too. An old cock grouse, watching with beady eye from higher ground, could give him away with its warning call. An eddy of restless air, moving from him to the deer, carrying with it the hated taint of Man, would tell the same story.

Reaching the ridge he spied the game and easily picked out the royal he hoped to get. The herd seemed to be feeding quietly so he began inching his way forward, only to freeze as the knowing old hind on sentry-go looked up suddenly to stare in his direction. Minutes passed. Rex did not flicker an eyelid, although heather pollen tickled his nostrils and mosquitoes got busy on his ears. Apparently satisfied, although obviously suspicious, the hind dropped her head to the moss on which the herd was feeding. Rex had only made five yards when up came her head again. It was, he saw, going to be slow work. A tenuous mist was forming in the atmosphere, but to hurry would be fatal.

The hind resumed her evening meal. Rex dragged himself another yard. Then came the end, as, with a startling whirr of wings a brood of ptarmigan shot into the air from where they had been squatting just in front of his face. The deer bunched instantly, staring at the point from which the danger threatened. The old hind stamped her foot, and with a bound was off, the rest following. Rex sighed his disappointment, but could still find pleasure in the picture the animals made as, clear-cut against the sunset, they topped the hill and disappeared from sight. Then he rose to his feet, knowing that the herd, twice alarmed, would run for miles before it stopped. Unloading, he walked back to his father. ‘They’re away,’ he said sadly.

‘Bad luck!’ commiserated Tiger, standing up and thumbing tobacco into a well-worn pipe.

‘The ptarmigan did it. They sat tight. I nearly put my hand on one.’

‘So I saw. But come on. Let’s get to lower ground. I don’t like the look of the weather.’

Rex picked up the haversack while his father closed and cased the spyglass, and together they started off towards the distant strath, already filled with the sombre shadows of the dying day.

Five minutes later the mist came down, grey and opaque, to blot out ben and burn and bog with the suddenness that only those who have seen it happen could believe.

‘Nasty,’ said Tiger, coming to a stop. ‘However, we’ll try to push on while the daylight lasts. Once it gets dark it’ll be hopeless. The danger is more rain coming over. With the wind in the north it’ll turn to snow up here.’

‘If we keep on going down hill we shall soon be on lower ground,’ reasoned Rex.

‘Yes, but where? I’ve been caught like this before. You’ve only to get on the wrong slope to finish in the middle of nowhere, twenty or thirty miles from home. But let’s keep going. I can’t remember any dangerous drops in front of us, so we should be all right for a bit, anyway. And there’s always a chance that the mist may be thinner lower down.’

‘Okay, Tiger; you know best,’ said Rex. His mother, like everyone else, had always called his father Tiger. It was one of the first words he had picked up and he had been allowed to use the nickname.

Their hopes did not materialize. On the contrary, with the setting of the unseen sun the murk became an almost tangible wall of vapour, restricting visibility to a matter of feet.

The situation that had developed was the one that takes heavy toll of inexperienced climbers every year. To go on, aware that one false step might take one over a cliff or into a bog, would be dangerous. The alternative, to stand still, would be to risk death from exposure should the weather deteriorate. These conditions may not be easy for a townsman to imagine, but they are all too common in actual fact. Had the time been morning instead of late evening Tiger would no doubt have called a halt, in the hope of an improvement in the weather. But darkness was now fast closing in, and unless lower ground was reached before movement became impossible the consequences were likely to be serious, to say the least.

It was Rex who broke a rather lengthy silence. ‘I’ve never seen this gully before,’ he said, trying with his eyes to probe a void that had appeared on their right, and from which, far below, came the babble of rushing water.

‘Nor I,’ replied Tiger quietly. ‘The truth is, we’re lost. I’ve known it for some time. Amazing how quickly it can happen, isn’t it, even when you’re sure you know every inch of the ground. But in this sort of country, unless you can see the skyline, it’s hopeless. Once you lose your sense of direction you start wandering, and that’s what we’re doing now. I carried on hoping to strike a sheep track; they usually run up and down hills; but so far we’ve been unlucky. If we’re a long way from sheep-grazing ground we must be a long way from a croft. Still, we’ll go on slowly. It’s all we can do.’ They carried on for what may have been half an hour, by which time deep night had silently drawn its curtain over the inhospitable land.

‘It’s no use,’ said Tiger at last. ‘We’d better pack up before one of us gets hurt. A twisted ankle won’t help matters.’

‘I may be kidding myself, but I thought the stuff was beginning to thin a bit,’ answered Rex. ‘It’s hard to tell in the dark. I was hoping every minute to see farm lights down there in the strath.’

‘For all we know we may have turned dean round, in which case we’re getting into that wild country behind the Monadhliath Mountains,’ was the disconcerting reply.

‘There’s no future in that.’

‘None at all.’

‘What are we going to do about it?’

‘The sensible thing would be to stay where we are, stamping about to keep ourselves warm until the sun lifts this murk tomorrow morning. Even if we could get another mile or two without breaking any bones we should be no better off than we are here. We’ll press on a little way if you like, to see if you were right about the mist thinning.’

They had not gone far when Rex let out a shout. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lights! Down there! Dash it, they’ve gone.’

‘Extraordinary,’ answered Tiger. ‘There were five red lights in the form of a cross. I saw them. There couldn’t possibly be a Red Cross Station here. It was as if they had been switched on and instantly switched off again. I must say that’s got me stumped. What sort of house would need a light like that? I mean, the only sort of house one would expect to find so far from a road would be the cottage of a gamekeeper; and the only sort of light would be candles or a paraffin lamp. Yet those lights we saw must have been pretty powerful to pierce this fog. They couldn’t have been far away, either.’

‘What about trying to get to them?’

‘We’ll have a shot at it,’ agreed Tiger. ‘Come on. I’ll lead. Keep close.’

They set off, now at the groping pace of a blind man in an unfamiliar room.

How much ground they covered in this way they did not know, for there was no means of checking. One thing was certain, however; they were on a steepening downward slope.

It was no doubt this fact of steeply falling ground that eventually saved them from an uncomfortable night on the open moor, for suddenly the mist began to thin; and then, in a stride or two, they were practically out of it. They had, as Rex realized, emerged from below the cloud in which they had been groping. He could see it, almost touch it, just over his head. There was no sign of a light anywhere.

‘That’s better,’ said Tiger, with heartfelt satisfaction.

Without the benefit of moon or stars it was of course still dark, too dark for anything except the nearest and most prominent features to be made out. They were, it seemed, nearly at the bottom of a valley, into which the ground in front of them continued to slope towards the only outstanding feature – a belt of pines.

‘There must be a lodge behind those trees,’ asserted Tiger. ‘You won’t find a plantation of trees at this elevation except where they’ve been planted as a windbreak. Let’s go on. It looks as if we’ve struck lucky.’

They went on down, moving more easily now, to the pines, where, finding no passage through the low-sweeping branches, they had to go round. Reaching the far side Rex saw that his father had been right; at least, he could safely assume so, for now, just in front of them, was a long, high wall, which could have been built for no other purpose than to protect a house of some size.

‘What on earth’s all this?’ asked Tiger, in a tone of voice that suggested astonishment. ‘I’ve seen a good many Highland lodges in my time, but this is the first I’ve seen that thought it necessary to put itself behind a wall as if it were a prison. Who in the name of goodness would go to the trouble and expense of putting up something that is surely quite unnecessary?’

‘How about finding the entrance and begging a cup of tea?’ suggested Rex practically. ‘Maybe the people inside will answer your question.’

‘What’s more important, they should be able to tell us where we are,’ returned Tiger.

Following the wall, they had to go some way before a rough, overgrown track guided them to a massive wooden door let into the wall. They looked in vain for bell or knocker, although there was an iron handle, and a small grille of the same metal at about eye level.

‘They must expect visitors to walk straight in,’ said Rex. ‘This is only an outer wall.’ So saying he grasped the handle. Instantly a cry of shock broke from his lips.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Tiger quickly.

‘I can’t let go.’

‘What d’you mean – you can’t let go?’

‘Something’s happened. My arm’s paralysed. I can’t open my hand, I tell you.’ There was a note of fear in Rex’s voice as he tugged in his efforts to free himself.

‘What the—’ Tiger stepped forward and grasped Rex’s hand, only to stop with a jerk of surprise. ‘You’re right,’ he said in a curious voice. ‘My arm’s gone numb, too. What lunacy is this?’ he added, a rising inflection in his voice expressing anger.

The answer was forthcoming. It came from the grille, behind which a panel had been pushed aside to reveal a pale, indistinct blur that was evidently a face.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ asked a calm, modulated voice.

‘We’re deer-stalkers, caught in the fog. We’ve lost our way,’ answered Tiger. ‘We saw some lights. What’ve you done to this door?’

The question was ignored. ‘May I have your names, nationalities and professions, please,’ came the same emotionless voice.

‘You may,’ replied Tiger curtly. ‘Group-Captain Timothy Clinton, and his son, Rex Clinton. Nationality, British born. Professions, aircraft engineer and aircraft apprentice.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ came back the voice evenly. ‘I’m sorry to subject you to some slight inconvenience, but it is only temporary. One moment, please.’ Footsteps could be heard retreating.

‘We’ve struck a madhouse all right,’ asserted Rex.

‘Let’s reserve judgement,’ answered Tiger. ‘After all, nobody invited us to open the door. It’ll be interesting to see how it works.’ He staggered slightly, as did Rex, as the restraining force was cut and they found themselves free.

Before they had time to comment the door was flooded with light from an unseen source, and swung open to reveal a somewhat portly man of middle age, going bald in front, in butler’s uniform. His attitude was one of dignity with respect. For a brief moment g. . .