The things from beyond the Milky Way galaxy found the intelligent races of our universe amusingly slight. To them, possessors of vast cosmic power, the strivings of various humanoids to outdo each other were a source of contemptuous entertainment. They established a contest between the worlds. It would be an Olympiad of the whole galaxy - a Galactiad. Let these puny interstellar intelligences meet each other in contest. Pit one against the other - and let the losers beware! Earth had its team - a mixed group of powerful athletes and genius scientists. Because other worlds did not always believe in the ideal of good sportsmanship, they had to confront the reality. Win at all costs . . . or goodbye to humanity!
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
128
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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Footsteps of Angels (2004) (previously unpublished work written c.1988)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Pandora’s Box (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)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Starslave (2010) (previously unpublished work written 1984)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Temple of Death (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)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 TormentedCity(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)
Commander Breson woke at the first note of the alarm, rolling from his bed and into his uniform, dressing with trained speed,
pausing only to dash a handful of water into his face, swallowing another as he ran from his cabin.
As he burst into the operations room, Major Piazzoni looked up from his desk and said, quietly, “Zero plus 36, sir.”
Over half a minute to wake, get dressed, get to his station. Not bad, but not good enough. Breson had set himself a half-minute
maximum—those extra six seconds would be a later cause of worry. Not that it mattered, the duty-crew would have done all that
was necessary, but no one with his responsibility could afford to be lenient with himself.
Curtly, Breson said, “Report?”
“Auxiliary vessels moving into intercept positions, sir. Reserves manned and leaving.”
“Time?”
Piazzoni glanced at his panel. “Zero plus 42.”
“Too long!” Breson’s voice reflected his anger. “Those stand-by crews are getting slack. Make a note to double all drills.
I want them to be aboard and free within half a minute.”
“Noted, sir.” Major Piazzoni glanced at Captain Renato and lifted his eyebrow a fraction. The Old Man was prickly and it was
a time to tread softly. With relief he saw the flash of tell-tales on his consol. “All stations battle-manned, sir.”
“Time?”
Breson relaxed a little as he heard it. He was a short, thick-set man with muscles which bulked his trim uniform of blue and
green and silver. His face was ruddy, the cheeks seamed with a mass of tiny lines, more lines etching the corners of his eyes. His mouth was hard, the lips thin, the jaw determined. A man who had earned his rank and
position and who intended that his command should be better than any other MALACA; faster, more efficient, more tautly trained.
“Enemy?”
“Fifteen units approaching from the eighth decant, five from the third. More on scattered intercept paths. A blanket attack
which I guess is to serve as a diversion to enable the main force to bypass our attack-potential.”
“You guess, mister?”
Major Piazzoni flinched at the acid comment.
“Sorry, sir. I assume.”
“You could be assuming too much.” Breson strode across the room to the main screens. They were alive with glowing colors,
points of red and blue, yellow and emerald, white and orange. The thin lines of noted and extrapolated positions made a skein
against the steady points of distant stars, the fuzz of distant nebulae.
Too much detail for any man to fully comprehend, but the computers would take care of the essentials, Breson wanted only the
general pattern.
Adding his own intuition to the mechanical efficiency of the machines.
“Send units to position 875924,” he rapped. “Class-two vessels—an entire squad.”
“Divert them, sir?”
“Use the reserves.” Breson knew he could be wrong, his hunch at fault, but the attackers had managed to open a gap through
which the mother ship itself could be attacked. He added, “Adopt evasive procedure. Random shifts.”
At the boards men relayed the commands, lights winking, instruments recording the activity inside the great vessel, the constantly
changing position. A ship which held ships and men and machines; tools with which to rehabilitate a world, energies sufficient
to destroy suns.
Breson could feel it as he stood before the screens, the very metal of his command seeming to become a physical part of him, the mighty engines the pulse of his heart, the computers the mesh of his brain, the auxiliary vessels,
now far distant, extensions of his fingers, his hands.
If those ships were to be destroyed he would feel the pain, the loss, the seething rage of something which had been wantonly
hurt.
And, hurt, he would kill.
As every MALACA in space would kill if Earth or its affiliated worlds, which formed the Terran Sphere, should be threatened
by any hostile force.
One day it would come, he thought bleakly. An ambitious race led by a power-hungry ruler would embark on a suicidal path of
attempted conquest. Ships and the fury of atomic destruction would be aimed against peaceful worlds and the delicate balance
of the Pax Terra sundered.
A race or combine of races trying to do by force what they had failed to do by guile.
Trying—and failing.
If the shields of the MALACAs could be kept strong, if the sword they held poised over any invader could be kept honed to
a fine edge.
“Units in position, sir.” Major Piazzoni’s voice was flat, emotionless. “Seven interceptors lost. Nine others damaged and
unoperational.”
“The enemy?”
“Twenty-eight units destroyed.”
A fair exchange, but not good enough. As yet the conflict had been far distant, scouts intercepting the enemy and doing their
job, men, technically dying, blood and guts spilled into the void, their vessels turned into glowing masses of radiant vapor
or ripped open to drift helplessly in space.
They would die if this had been real and not a simulated exercise.
“Engage all reserves,” rapped Breson. “Triple layer of interceptors. Plot origin of attack and launch a counter-offensive.
Move!”
He was matching his skill and intuition against the secret programming devised by the experts on Earth. A test which had been triggered by remote control and one he would meet
or be replaced. If he failed then it would be the end of his active career; an early retirement or to take up a position in
a training academy to teach youngsters who now itched to fill his shoes.
That fact he accepted—Earth could not afford to be defended by anything less than the best.
The second wave came, simulated ships hurtling through the void, the computers checking and assessing each defensive maneuver,
adding gains and losses, ships taken out, fire-power diminished, potential damage noted. A make-believe battle which would
take hours and strain every nerve and sinew to the uttermost.
To Breson it was real.
To Lieutenant Edward Sharrat it was not.
He sat at the controls of his three-man interceptor and glowered at the screens. Even the thrill and test of a simulated battle
would have been better than maintaining a holding position in an area which all sense and logic told him would remain empty
of possible targets. And there was little fun in tracking down a computerized point on the screens, of firing empty guns and
aiming nonexistent torpedoes.
“We’re stuck,” he said disgustedly. “No high points for us, no big scores. Just come out, wait, then go back to listen to
the boasting. Can you imagine what Hardy will say? Fifteen kills and not a scratched plate. Soon he’ll make captain.”
“Maybe.” Fahey relaxed in his turret. “Me, I just take things as they come. Show me a target and I’ll get it. Show me empty
space and I’m grateful. Who wants to get killed?”
“No one.” At the engines Walcott chec. . .
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