Twin Planets

by Philip E. High

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

Synopsis

Earth and Firma were twin planets - mirror worlds in a single time-track. Now Firma was halted in its rotation around the sun by the Aliens. Unless Denning and Liston, twin humans, could destroy the Aliens and get Firma moving again, Earth would some day repeat Firma's tragedy and be burned to a cinder. The Aliens had an incredible array of weapons at their disposal. Denning and Liston had only their courage and their brains.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 155

Sample

Denning had not realized that the events of the past week had shaken him so much until his eyesight started playing tricks.

He had seen it, hadn’t he? He stopped, put his car into reverse and went slowly backwards. It was an illusion, a trick of the light, surely?

It wasn’t.

There was a small shelter containing a seat and a raised metal sign. The metal sign said Stus Bop.

He climbed out of the car and looked again. Clearly it was not a joke. The sign was weather-worn, and it was unlikely that the local authorities would permit such a glaring mistake to go unchanged for long. One knew, of course, that the sign meant “Bus Stop” but, even after rubbing one’s eyes, it still said Stus Bop.

He frowned, irritated to find that the mistake had shaken him, and climbed back into the car. Better take a rest. If he were that shaken he’d better get off the road before he had an accident.

He pulled onto the grass verge, cut the engine and shivered. Damned cold, wasn’t it? Strange, the sun had been shining only a few moments ago; now the sun had vanished and the sky had a curiously leaden sheen.

He shivered again. God, he was cold, really cold, but this was July, not January. Probably a fall in temperature due to an approaching storm, or more likely still, nerves, sheer nerves. The cold was nerves, the “bus stop” nerves, the whole business an aftermath of shock.

He lit a cigarette, made certain the handbrake was on and closed his eyes. Better relax, try to sleep for a few moments. He’d be better after some rest.

In sleep Denning looked boyish, helpless and curiously ineffectual for his thirty years. He had good features: a strong chin, a well shaped mouth and awake, clear gray eyes beneath dark, rather thick brows. Nonetheless, he still looked guileless and vaguely apprehensive, as if he had been shut away from the world too long and was doubtful of its attitude towards him.

Perhaps the expression was indicative because Denning had discovered the previous week that he was guileless, was ineffective.

He had also discovered, to his chagrin, that he was a physical and moral coward. In truth, the only justification he could find for his continued existence was the fact that he could admit these things to himself without trying to justify them or explain them away.

He went over the events again. Yes, he was a coward. He should have hit Beacham, struck out at him however ineffectively, if only to justify his own manhood.

The trouble was, of course, that Beacham was bigger. The muscles in his naked shoulders had rippled unpleasantly, and he had looked crude, savage and too confident.

Beacham had stuck out his chin, almost demanding to be punched, and then he had sneered, “Don’t burst into tears, sonny boy. These things happen and will probably happen again—or would you care to do something about it?”

It was then that Denning discovered he was a coward. He had retreated behind a torrent of clichés, a flood of deprecation. He heard the nauseatingly familiar phrases as if they were not his own. They were “civilized people,” he had said. Then, “differences could be settled without violence.” And so it went until the pathetic flood of words slowly dried and he found himself near to tears and fumbling for a cigarette.

Beacham had laughed, laughed until the tears came into his eyes, and even Marian, who had not known whether to look guilty or brazen, had joined in shrilly, if a little hysterically.

Denning writhed inwardly. You came home unexpectedly because you had forgotten some necessary papers and found a business associate in bed with your wife. All you could do when they stood and laughed at you was to cringe, clenching and unclenching your hands ineffectually. But you knew suddenly that Marian, who was thirty-two, had married you for security. You knew that this was but one of many infidelities. You knew that this was not a love affair, but an incident. This act of adultery was as casual and as meaningless as a meal in a restaurant. God, and he had talked of “stepping aside for their future happiness.” No wonder they had laughed.

He had wanted to hit Beacham, wanted to punch the thick sensuous lips until they were pulp; the resentment and the urge had been there, but his muscles had refused to respond.

Worse, he saw Beacham every day at work, and every day Beacham smirked and said, “Good morning, sonny boy.”

It was clear also, by the sly looks of some of his colleagues and the embarrassed pity of others, that Beacham had related both his conquest and the subsequent “scene” to the entire staff.

Denning worked for a small firm of industrial architects and, for the last week, he had been using his entire will-power to go to work.

He was, he knew, a competent but uninspired architect with little hope of achieving sensational success, but at least he had been secure and almost content. Now he was a clown, a cuckold, despised by his associates and, no doubt, being reappraised by his employers.

At home, it was almost as bad. Marian was either out or shut in her room and, if they met, she called him “cave-worm.”

Denning realized suddenly that he was bitterly cold and opened his eyes. It was clear that his nerves——

His mind froze with his body and became blank and uncomprehending. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. Deep down inside him he whimpered.

There was no shelter, no bus stop, no familiar road, and a shrieking wind buffeted madly at the stationary car.

It was almost dark. Stars were visible and the sky was lit at the poles by an aurora such as had never been seen.

He blinked painfully. Ahead of him, a mile-wide road stretched to a horizon that looked like a burned black line against a white and crimson fire which flared like the open door of a blast furnace.

Denning put his hands over his eyes. “Hell,” he thought, dully. “I’m dead. I must have been killed somewhere, probably in a road accident.”

He looked again at the horizon, at the long black shadows leaning in darkness from every mound and hill, at the rim of fire encompassing the visible curvature of the Earth. It looked like a sunset gone mad.

Clearly, this was hell, but a Scandinavian hell of green ice and cold vipers——

Slowly his mind began to function and, by degrees, to reason. There was ice on the hood of the car, and the windshield was filigreed with frost. When you died, when you were killed, did you take your car with you? Would you be smoking the same cigarette? Somehow, none of it made sense and he was filled with an overwhelming panic. Got to get away from here, got to turn the car around and head away from that ghastly burning glare.

He fumbled, shaking for the switch and turned it sharply to the right. The starter groaned, the engine turned protestingly, missed, faltered and finally fired unevenly. Vaguely he was glad he had not drained the antifreeze of the previous winter.

The first time he tried to pull away, the engine stalled and he had to restart, but the second time the engine had almost settled down to its familiar purr.

The opposite direction was, he found, no more encouraging than the flaring horizon from which he had turned. The distant heights which faced him might have been normal mountains, but he didn’t think they were. The jagged peaks and long surfaces which threw back the glare almost like mirrors could mean only one thing—ice. Mountains of ice, enormous glaciers rising tier upon tier as far as he could see.

God, he was so cold. His feet felt numb and the middle finger of his right hand was white and bloodless.

He turned on the heater and was grateful for the flow of lukewarm air from the slowly heating engine.

An enormous gust of wind shook the car and he skidded slightly on the icy road. Better hold the thing in second gear. Funny driving through hell in second gear, spatter of hail on the windshield but everlasting fire behind you. Wait now, for the horned gentleman with goat’s legs and a trident. Watch it, Denning, watch it! You’re becoming hysterical, a little more like that and you’ll start gibbering—but, oh God, what the hell has happened?

At that moment a curt voice which seemed to come from the empty seat beside him said: “Halt! Halt! Police!”

Fortunately Denning was already slowing or he would have run straight into the back of the thing which appeared suddenly in front of him.

He braked violently and stopped.

The thing was black, pear-shaped and without visible door or windows. It hung, silently, just in front of him without visible means of support.

As he watched, an opening appeared in the thing’s side and a man stepped out. He wore what appeared to be a black crash-helmet with a sharply pointed peak. Above the peak, painted in thick, rather clumsy, white lettering were the words ZONAL POLICE. Below the helmet was a tight fitting scarlet uniform which covered the man’s entire body, including his hands and feet.

He strode over and Denning automatically wound down the window, shivering in a sudden blast of ice cold air.

“Permit!” The policeman extended a scarlet-clad hand. He had a long, thinly bitter face and tiny, unpleasantly brittle blue eyes.

“My driving license, you mean?” Even to himself, Denning sounded hoarse, terrified and almost inaudible.

“Driving license?” The policeman smiled bitterly with one side of his mouth. “Friend, I am not here to play jolly guessing games, or indulge in idle banter. You are inter-zone, between frontiers, and you are not allowed out of your zone without a permit. You know the law as well as I, so now that I have wasted valuable time spelling it out for you to avoid a misunderstanding, you will produce the permit—yes?”

Denning made frantic and helpless gestures with his hands. “I don’t know where I am. I think I lost my way somehow. I don’t know what you mean by a permit or a zone—” His voice trailed away.

The policeman looked at him and smiled. It was a mockingly soothing smile, and it made Denning go cold inside.

“We are jesting, yes?” The smile was tigerish now. “We are daring and filled with bravado.” The policeman put his hand inside the window and pointed his finger, the tip of which terminated in a bright metal point. “I, too, play games. I, too, can be the great comedian.” He looked at the other thoughtfully. “I should burn a small black hole in your right ear, perhaps? It is an amusing game among jesters, but you would have to keep very still or the small black hole might be burned right through your head. Shall we begin now or would you like to produce the permit?”

“Look, I’m very sorry.” Denning was almost in tears. “Please understand—” He stopped. The policeman had thrust his head into the car and was studying the instruments disbelievingly. “Mother of Sin,” he said in a shocked undertone.

He withdrew his head and walked slowly around the car, studying it. Twice he kicked the tires, three times he looked underneath, then he returned. “What, in the name of God, is this thing?”

“It’s”—Denning cleared his throat nervously—”It’s a Ford Classic.”

“Where did you get it—dig it out of a glacier?”

“I bought it four months ago.”

“It’s a mockup, surely. Let’s look at the energy unit.”

“Ener—?” Denning understood suddenly and dutifully released the hood catch.

The policeman raised it and studied the engine. “Naked Sin, it really is a combustion unit.” He strode suddenly to the window. There was something gleaming in his hand that was clearly a weapon, and his face was ugly. “What sort of stunt is this? No more jokes, my friend. You have exactly ten seconds to tell the whole story.”

“The whole story has yet to be told,” said a quiet male voice, and Denning saw the policeman stiffen.

“Don’t do anything rash, my friend. There are six burners pointed at the middle of your back.”

“So it was a joke after all.” The policeman looked at Denning with something akin to respect, then his face contorted. “What shall I do?”

“If you are wise,” said the voice, “You will climb back into your prowl and go away. Forget this. It is none of your business.”

“I cannot do that. You know I cannot do it. At the first opportunity I must call for assistance, outwit you, or fight it out.”

“Then you are a fool.”

“True, but I cannot help it. It is the conditioning, you understand. I cannot help it.”

“Then we are very sorry.” There was a brief flash of violet light. The policeman stiffened. For a few seconds he stood swaying, bubbling sounds came from his throat, then abruptly he crumpled sideways.

Denning saw him clutch at the car, fall half over, his head striking the hood, and then he disappeared from view.

A voice said, “Pick him up and toss him in his prowl. He’ll freeze to death out here.”

“We could do with a few less of these creeps.”

“We have no fight with the Z.P. and, in any case, they cannot help it.”

“This one can talk.”

“So can his dead body to sci. . .