"To Pop, with deep affection, Gary."
"To Pop, with deep affection, Gary."
Tom shook his head, wonderingly. Were these creatures so very different?
When Tom stepped out on Fifth-Madison some ten minutes later, it was just in time to watch a police vehicle draw up to the entrance of 320. Sensing danger, he stepped into the shade of the Tuscany Bar awning, and watched the uniformed men pound their way down the marbled lobby floor towards the elevators. He thought fast, and decided that the arrival of the police was connected with the shooting in Wright's office.
The question was—who were they after?
He walked into the Tuscany, and headed for the bank of visiphone booths. He dialed the police commissioner, but ducked out of the path of the visiphone eye.
Stinson growled at the blank screen. "Who is it?"
"Never mind," Tom said, muffling his voice. "But if you want the killers of Walt Spencer and his wife, pick up John Andrusco and a gal named Livia Cord."
"Okay, Blacker," Stinson thundered. "I knew you'd be calling in."
Tom swore, and showed himself. "Listen, I'm telling you the truth. They told me the whole story. Then they tried to have me killed."
"Is that so? And I suppose the assassin was a guy named Wright?"
"Yes!"
"Okay, wise guy. We're on to you. You've been pocketing some of that Homelovers dough, and the treasurer found you out. Isn't that the story?"
"No! Wright's one ofthem."
"Sure, pal. Whatever you say. Only stay right where you are so you can do your explaining proper."
Tom tightened his lips. "Uh-huh. I don't like the sound of things. I'll see you later, Mr. Stinson."
"Blacker!"
Tom switched off.
By the time he was settled behind the red neck of a cab-driver, Tom was wiping a dripping film of sweat from his forehead. He couldn't return to his apartment; there was bound to be a stake-out. He couldn't go to Livia's; that would be walking right into danger. And he couldn't go to Stinson, without risking a murder charge.
He leaned forward.
"Driver—make that the LaGuardia Heliport."
However efficient Stinson's operations might have been, their tentacles hadn't reached the 'copter-rental station at the heliport. Tom signed out a speedy vessel under an assumed name, and taxied it down the runway. Then he pointed the nose west, and radioed ahead to his destination at Washington, D. C.
Colonel Grady Mordigan had the thoughtful air of a scholar and the body of a college wrestler. When Tom Blacker's name was announced to him, his mouth turned down grimly. He was commanding officer of the Space Flight Commission of the UN Air Force, and he had good reason to frown at the sound of the PR man's name.
But he invited him into his office.
"So you're Tom Blacker," he said, pinching his jaw. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Blacker."
"I'm sure," Tom said. "Only I want to tell you this, Colonel. I've broken my connection with Homelovers. I'm on your side now."
"Side? There are no sides in this issue, Mr. Blacker. As far as I'm concerned, Homelovers is nothing but a flea on the lip of a lion. A damned annoying flea, maybe—but nothing more than that. Now what do you want?"
"I have to talk to you about something. Something I just found out. Will you listen to me?"
The colonel leaned back, looking at his watch.
"Five minutes," he snapped.
Tom talked for fifteen. Mordigan didn't call a halt until he was finished, listening without a change of expression. When Tom ran out of words, he merely tapped his fingers on the desk.
"And that's your whole story?" he said gently.
"Yes, sir. I know it's a wild one. That's one of the things they're counting on. It's just wild enough to get me put into a laughing academy, where I can't do them any mischief. But I had to take that chance, Colonel."
"I see. And this—man you killed. What's happening about that?"
"I don't know," Tom said. "The way I figure it, Andrusco and the girl have told the police that I was embezzling money from the firm—that I killed the treasurer for my own protection. But it's not true! He's one ofthem—one of those creatures—"
"But you have no real proof?"
Tom's back stiffened. "No," he said grimly. "If I had proof, I'd have gone to the police. But I came here instead. Now you can tell me if I did the right thing."
Mordigan grimaced. "I don't know, damn it! I don't have any love for the Homelovers. To me, they've always been a bunch of greedy businessmen, intent on salvaging their franchises at any expense. But it's not easy to think of them as a bunch of—" His mouth twisted. "Loathsome aliens ..."
"Maybe not so loathsome," Tom said miserably. "I just don't know. Maybe their cause is as just to them as ours is to us. But they're determined to reach Mars before we do—before you do! And they'll do anything to make sure—"
The colonel stood up. "But I'm afraid that question is academic, Mr. Blacker. Because if our calculations are right, an Earth vessel will be on the planet Mars within the next thirty-six hours."
"What?"
"No announcement has been made. But a Mars-bound ship was launched almost a month ago, containing seven members of the space commission. Our last radio contact with Captain Wright leads us to expect—"
"Who?" Tom was on his feet.
"Captain Gary Wright, the commander of the ship." His brow knitted. "Why? Do you know him?"
"I'm not sure," Tom said weakly. "But if he's the same man—then that flight's in danger."
"What are you talking about?"
Tom concluded his story about the death of the Homelovers treasurer, down to the last detail of the framed photograph on Wright's desk. The tale brought Colonel Mordigan into immediate action. He buzzed for his orderly, and in another minute, was fumbling through a folder marked Classified.
"Yes," he said numbly. "It's the same man. Father's named Benjamin Wright, and he's vice-president and treasurer of Homelovers, Incorporated. I never connected the two ..." He looked up, his eyes heavy. "If your story is true, Mr. Blacker, then Captain Wright is one of these so-called Antamundans. And if their mission is what you say it is—"
Tom clenched his fists on the blotter. "Please, sir! Let me stay here until the flight is concluded. After that, you can do what you like."
"All right," Mordigan said wearily. "I'll fix you up with something in the officer's quarters. But I'm sure you're wrong, Mr. Blacker. Youhaveto be."
Twenty-four hours later, radio contact with the Mars expeditionary ship ceased abruptly.
From Mt. Wilson observatory, a hurried message arrived, reporting a small, brief nova in the orbital vicinity of the planet Mars.
Tom Blacker, dozing fitfully on a cot in the quarters of a grumpy Lieutenant-Colonel, was awakened suddenly, and summoned to the office of Colonel Grady Mordigan.
"Very well, Mr. Blacker," the colonel said stiffly. "I'm willing to help. Just tell me what you want me to do."
The receptionist smiled icily at Tom, and then the smile vanished like a Martian polar cap.
"Why—Mr. Blacker!"
"Hi, Stella," he grinned. "Mr. Andrusco in his office?"
"Why, I don't know. Suppose I give him a ring—"
He stopped the hand that was reaching for the telephone. "No need of that. I think I'll just surprise him. After all, it's been some time."
He turned the knob of John Andrusco's door slowly.
Livia was with him. When he entered, they both stood up hastily, their eyes wide and their mouths unhinged.
Livia reacted first. She cried out his name, and then sat down heavily, as if the words had been a physical force.
"Hi, Livia," Tom said casually. "Good to see you again, Mr. Andrusco. Sorry that I haven't been around—but things have been pretty hectic for me lately."
"How did you get here?" Andrusco's voice was choked.
"I've been here all weekend, if you want to know." Tom seated himself blithely. "As a matter of fact, the Homelovers Building has had quite a lot of visitors this weekend."
"What do you mean?"
"You know the staff of cleaning personnel that invades this place every Saturday? Well, there were some changes made this particular weekend. I'm sure you'll be interested in hearing about them."
Livia said: "Shall I call the police, John?"
"The police were represented," Tom said. "Don't worry about that. In fact, the top technicians from three government agencies were doing the housework around here this weekend, Mr. Andrusco. They probably didn't get the building much cleaner—but they swept up a lot of other things. Yes, they certainly uncovered other things."
Andrusco walked over to Livia, and touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture. The sight of them made Tom scowl.
"All right!" he said roughly. "I'm not blaming you for what you're doing. But things were getting out of hand, Mr. Andrusco. That's why we had to put a stop to it."
"And have you?" Andrusco asked politely.
"I'm afraid so. It was quite a shock, let me tell you. We didn't know what to expect when we dissected this building of yours. But the last thing we expected to find was—a spaceship."
Andrusco smiled. "It was cleverly done. You'll have to admit that."
"I do," Tom said fervently. "You've got those space flight experts absolutely insane with curiosity. They'll want to hear the whole story. Will you give it to them?"
The man shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. I presume the engines have been dismantled?"
"Made inoperable, yes. It would have been a great trick, if you could have done it."
Livia spoke sadly. "It was the only thing we could have done. There's no place on this Earth where we could have erected a spaceship without being observed. So we created this building. In time, we would have perfected the mechanism and left this silly planet of yours."
"That's what I don't understand," Tom said. "What about Antamunda—and the survivors—"
"There's no longer an Antamunda," John Andrusco said hollowly. "The story we told you was true in its essence, but not, I'm afraid complete. You see, the exodus that took place five hundred years ago was a total exodus. The entire population of our world—a handful, a pitiful ragged thousand—left Antamunda for this planet. We thought to make it our new home, for all eternity. But in time, we learned that we had emigrated to an extinction just as certain."
"What do you mean?"
"This world is cursed to us, Mr. Blacker. I can't tell you why. We breed slowly, infrequently—you might even say, thoughtfully. And on your planet, but one child in a thousand has survived the rigors of childbirth on Earth." He looked at Livia, and the woman lowered her eyes in remembered sorrow.
"That's why we had to leave," Andrusco said. "To repopulate elsewhere. We chose the planet Mars, and we were determined to make it our home before your world claimed it. Our scientists and technicians have worked on nothing else but this flight since the beginning of the last century. This building—this vessel—was the culmination of our plans. In another few years, we would have been ready. The dream would have been realized."
Tom walked to the window of the office, and looked out at a bank of swift-moving clouds drifting past the spire of the Homelovers Building.
"I'm afraid that's the saddest part," he said. "The atomic engines in the basement have been examined, Mr. Andrusco. The best opinions say that they're pitifully inadequate. The men who studied them say that you would never have made the journey in safety."
"That can't be true! In time—"
"In time, perhaps. But since your landing here, your scientists have forgotten a great deal about space flight. I'm afraid you would have never reached that Promised Land ..."
Andrusco said: "Then we must die ..."
"No!" Tom said.
Livia looked at him.
"I said no!" he repeated. "The Antamundans can live. Don't you see that?"
"No," Andrusco said, shaking his head. "On Earth, we shall die. If Mars is closed to us ..."
"Can't you see? If Mars can be opened for Earth, then it can be opened for you, too. For all Antamundans! Your people can make the journey, too, once space has been cleared for Earth ships. You can still have your new home!"
"Perhaps," Livia said dreamily. "Perhaps that is the only way. But by then, Tom, it will be already too late. There has been no living child born to us in the last ten years. By the time the Earth people reach Mars and establish regular passageway—we will be too old to keep the race alive."
"Then let's speed it up!" he said. "Let's makesurethat the space lanes open! Let's do everything to make Space the most important project on Earth!"
"But how?" Andrusco said, bewildered.
Tom went to the visiphone.
"Get me the Lunt Theatre!" he snapped.
Homer Bradshaw's face appeared.
"Mr. Bradshaw?"
"Hi, Tom! How's the boy?"
"Great, Homer, great. Only listen. I got a new angle for you. We're gonna doctor up that show of yours before the opening. Don't worry about the dough— Homelovers will take care of it with pleasure."
"Sure, Tom! Anything you say!"
"Then take this down. The first thing we're changing is the title. From now on it'sMars Or Bust..."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:This etext was produced fromAmazing StoriesDecember 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.