The Day The World Died

by John E. Muller, Lionel Fanthorpe, Patricia Fanthorpe

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

Synopsis

Carl Kovak was an expendable political prisoner as far as the Eastern Totalitarian Government was concerned. He was being sent into orbit in a lead lined capsule to see if it offered adequate protection from cosmic rays. Carl was strapped in and waiting for blast-off when the first bombs fell. The lead saved his body but doubt was splitting his mind. He had believed in the honesty and integrity of the West. But what if the West had started the war?
Finally, after incredible hardships and dangers, Carl Kovak found the answer. Neither East nor West had launched the atomic missiles... they had come from Space! Now alien invaders and savage mutant stalked the earth. Could a handful of human heroes survive against such terrible odds?

Release date: November 28, 2013

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

“The world was dead, but strange things moved on its scorched surface.”

THE name was Kovak. There were four of them. They lived in a small, rather austere apartment that was so high up they could see Red Square nearly three-quarters of a mile away. They could see factories, shops, offices. They could see quite a fair slice of Moscow. They had seen it every day for a long time. Carl Kovak was the father of the family. He was in his late thirties, slim, dark, sensitive, with burning eyes, and ears that tended to be a little more prominent than would have been admissible on a fashion plate. But Carl Kovak was not a fashion plate model. Carl Kovak was a musician. To be precise, he was a flautist and he played with the Moscow State Orchestra. His wife Katrina, who now sat opposite him at the tea table, was a female replica of her husband; there was about her that same dark sensitivity. She was pale and intense, and it was obvious to all who knew them that it was their mutual interest in art and music that had brought them together in the first place. They were not by any means desperately or romantically ‘in love’ in the Western sense of the words. Those things were regarded as being a little bit decadent … but they were compatible, and that, decided Kovak, was as much as the average man could hope for. Perhaps they were more than compatible, in some ways they were genuinely fond of each other, and the children helped. There was Petrov, a serious-minded eleven-year-old and the gay, happy, sparkling, dancing Anitka, their daughter.

Katrina carved the loaf as though she were drawing a bow across the strings of a violin.

Carl looked at her with a mixture of amusement and admiration, she was certainly dainty; she could even cut bread as though it were some kind of artistic exercise. He watched while the children ate pickled cabbage between folded slices, and his eyes strayed across to the city itself; the city upon which evening was just trying to fall. Lights were coming on, lights in offices, lights in shops. Carl realised just how fortunate he was to be a flautist in the State Orchestra. It was good to be a musician. You rehearsed during the morning and early afternoon. You got home in decent time, to listen to records, to turn on the wireless, perhaps, even, to try the television. They had not got used to it yet. The set had been presented to him by the Orchestra itself to mark the twentieth consecutive year of membership. For a man of his age he thought that was pretty good. The children were thrilled with the thing, but after the first novelty had worn off Carl and Katrina found it was so much in the experimental stage, as far as transmissions went, that it was a novelty rather than an efficient medium or channel for regular entertainment.

They finished tea, and Katrina cleared up while Carl and serious-minded Petrov, who might have been a miniature image of his father, got out the chess board and played two games, while little Anitka helped her mother to wash up and put the things away.

“You are playing too fast, father,” said Petrov soberly.

“Am I?” said Carl.

“You have lost—again!” returned his son triumphantly, as he forced home a powerful check-mate with rook and queen.

“I’m afraid I am not concentrating tonight, my boy,” said Kovak, “perhaps we should play some music.”

From the cupboard Carl produced the instruments in their cases. Katrina played the ’cello, little Anitka the violin, while Petrov followed in his father’s footsteps, and was an aspiring flautist. They played Beethoven, Brahms and Bach; Dvorak and Bartok. The children were skilled instrumentalists already, while Carl and Katrina both played with the skill and versatility that one would expect from the advanced adult amateur, or the professional. At last Carl looked up in the middle of a ten-bar rest and said softly to Katrina:

“They should be here soon, perhaps it would be best if the children went to bed.”

Katrina nodded. They finished the piece that they were playing and then Katrina took the children through to their own rooms.

By the time she returned the front door bell was ringing quietly.

“I’ll go,” said Carl. He opened the door to admit Vladimir Pushkin. Pushkin was short and fat, and even in the Muscovite cold he sweated profusely. His eyes protruded from his head like two ping-pong balls that had been dropped into a vat of warm butter.

“I think Sacha is coming, I saw him as I got into the elevator. I think he is taking the stairs,” said Pushkin.

“Come and sit down,” said Carl. “Sacha will be here in a moment.”

Vladimir had scarcely creaked his way into the chair nearest to the central heating radiator, when the bell rang again.

Carl admitted Sacha Ornokovitch. Ornokovitch could best be described as an intellectual tadpole. He had a diminutive body, which was for ever on the go, and a huge, rather ebullient type of head. He wore thick, heavy-framed spectacles which made him look vaguely like an owlet. He looked over his shoulder.

“The good Serg is just behind me,” he said.

“Splendid, splendid,” said Kovak, “then we are all here.” The majestic presence of Serg Magarabad made itself felt. Serg wore an old-fashioned black cloak, and he had the kind of personality that went with it. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested; the power of his personality equalled the power of his physique. There was as much body as there was brain in Magarabad—and there was a great deal of each.

“It is good to see you,” said Kovak, backing away a little, as though overshadowed by the mighty presence of the man in the cloak.

“It is good to be here.” Magarabad had a voice that matched his mind and his muscles. It was a powerful voice; the kind of voice that nobody could ignore. It made buildings shake, even when it was turned down as soft as it would go.

Kovak ushered his friends inside and shot the bolt. He looked at Katrina.

“The children are in bed?” She nodded. “Then we can begin our discussion.”

“You are sure that nobody can overhear?” asked Magarabad, in that powerful boom.

“If we speak quietly all will be well,” answered Kovak, and looked at Magarabad meaningfully. But the great presence was inextinguishable. Magarabad looked at him as though to say ‘I am speaking as softly as I can.’ He was like one of those pieces of very powerful broadcasting equipment which do not work on low output. He had the kind of voice that was meant to be used as a public address system. It had many advantages, but in the present circumstances it was something of a drawback.

“You all know why we are here,” said Kovak, looking round at his friends. “We are here to discuss our ideals in freedom and in liberty among our friends, but if news of our discussions were ever to leak out then we are as good as dead.”

“True, true,” Pushkin mopped sweat from his brow as he spoke. Sacha Ornokovitch, the intellectual tadpole, was crossing and uncrossing his knees while he talked. They talked long into the night. Katrina made coffee three times while they talked. They talked of freedom of idealism; they talked of politics, of music, of art, and of literature. They talked of philosophy and of psychology, and of the meaning of life itself. They talked of the individual. And in all their talk it would have been obvious to any listener that they were subversive. They were not dangers to the State; they were not spies seeking the overthrow of an empi. . .