V
He looked up into Zeeth’s eyes. Blood smeared the Venusian’s fat face, but he was smiling wanly.
“Hello,” Vanning said, sitting up.
Zeeth nodded. “The others are all right. Still unconscious.”
“The crash—”
“Hobbs has a broken arm, and I cracked a rib, I think. But the ship’s hull was tough.”
Vanning stood up. His eyes was caught by the movement on the visiplate, which had incredibly survived the shock of landing. He moved forward, bracing himself against the back of the pilot’s chair.
The city of the Swamja lay spread beneath him. The ship had lodged itself high on one of the towers, smashing its way into a sort of cradle, and then rolling down till its bow faced north. In the distance the jagged metal of the tube stood up forty feet above ground level. The rest of it wasn’t there, though gleaming, twisted plates of metal lay here and there in the streets.
And through the avenues shapes were moving. They were the Swamja, and they moved like automatons. They moved in one direction only—away from the ship.
As far as Vanning could see the Swamja were pouring through their city.
Zeeth said softly, “You are very clever. I still do not understand—”
Vanning shrugged, and his voice was tired. “The only way, Zeeth. I broke the tube that shot the North-Fever virus into the upper air. The virus was released within the city, in tremendous quantity. You know how fast it works. And in this strength—”
“Yes. It strikes quickly.”
“Once you’ve had the fever, you’re immune to it ever afterward. So the slaves won’t suffer. Only the Swamja. They’re getting a dose of their own medicine.”
“They go north,” Zeeth said. “Out of the city.”
It was true. Far in the distance, the Swamja were pouring toward the north gate, and vanishing through the open valves there. Nothing could halt them. The deadly virus they had created was flaming in their veins, and—they went north.
The did not walk; they ran, as though anxious to meet their doom. Through the city they raced, grotesque, hideous figures, unconscious of anything but the terrible, resistless drive that drew them blindly north. Through the north gate, into the pass—
Through the pass—to the lava pits!
Vanning’s shoulders slumped. “It’s nasty. But—I suppose—”
“Even the gods must die,” Zeeth said.
“Yeah. … Well, we’ve work to do. We’ll get food, water, and supplies, and head south for Venus Landing to get help. A small party will do. Then we can commandeer troops and swamp-cats to rescue the slaves from this corner of hell. We can get through to Venus Landing all right—”
“Yes, that will be possible—though difficult. Vanning—” Zeeth’s eyes hooded.
“Yeah?”
“Callahan is not here.”
“What?”
The Venusian made a quick gesture. “He awoke when I did. He told me to say that he had no wish to go to prison—so he was leaving.”
“Where to?” Vanning asked quietly.
“Venus landing. He left the ship an hour ago to get food and weapons, and by this time he is in the southern swamps, well on his way. At the Landing, he said, he would embark on a spaceship heading—somewhere.”
“I see. He’ll reach the Landing before we do, then. Before we leave, we’ll have to get things in some sort of order.”
Both Hobbs and the girl were moving slightly. Presently they would awaken—and then the work would begin. With the city emptied of the Swamja, it would be easy to organize the slaves, get up a party to march to Venus Landing—
Vanning’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. So Callahan was gone. He wasn’t surprised. Callahan would never know that the detective had awakened from the crash before any of the others—and had shammed unconsciousness till the fugitive had had time to make good his escape.
Vanning shrugged. Maybe he was a damn fool. Getting softhearted. …
“Okay,” he said to Zeeth. “Let’s get busy. We’ve got a job ahead of us!”
Thunder in the Void
Foreword
Late in the Twentieth Century Man, for the first time, burst through the invisible barrier that had always kept him chained to his planet. A new and almost uncharted ocean lay before him, its vastness illimitable, its mysteries as yet unexplored. Magellan, Columbus, Leif Ericsson—these primitives expected great wonders as the searoads opened before the prows of their ships. But the first spacemen thought—mistakenly, as it proved—that the airless void between the worlds could hold little unknown to them.
They did not foresee that actual experience of a thing is far different from abstract knowledge of it. They did not foresee the death that leaped upon them from the outer dark, the strange, enigmatic horror that killed men without leaving trace or clue. The ships came back, crews decimated. Out there lay a menace that slew with blind, ravening fury.
For a time space held its secret. And then the Varra spoke to us, warned us, told us why space was forbidden.
The Varra—glowing balls of light that hung in the void, vortices of electromagnetic energy, alive and intelligent. For generations, they said, they had tried to communicate with us. But they could not exist except in airless space, or under specialized conditions. They were not protoplasmic in nature; they were beings of pure energy. But they were intelligent and friendly.
From them we learned the nature of the menace. A race of beings dwelt on Pluto, so different from both humanity and the Varra that they were almost inconceivable. This race had never mastered space travel; it had no need to leave its dark world. Only the immense power of the Plutonians’ minds reached out through the void, vampiric, draining the life-energy from living organisms over incredible distances. Like medieval robber-barons they laired on their planet, and the tentacles of their minds reached impalpably out for prey. Vampires of energy.
Vampires of life.
But the Varra they could not touch or harm. The peculiar physical structure of the Varra rendered them safe from the Plutonian creatures.
A World Fleet was sent out to subdue Pluto, against the advice of the Varra. It did
