Raymond Z. Gallun - Saturn's Ringmaster.pdf - Raymond Z. Gallun - allforjesus2001

Helplessly Marooned in Space, Earthman and Uranian

Devise a Cunning Trap for an Interplanetary Outlaw!

SATURN’S

RINGMASTER

By RAYMOND Z. GALLUN

Author of “Old Faithful,” “Derelict,” etc.

OU’RE licked, Raff Orethon. The

new Esar repulsion shield will

protect me and my people, not the

Titanian colony. I could kill you now, but to do so

would be a waste of effort, since you are already

as good as dead. Sometimes self-murder is

justified, my friend. If you and that ridiculous

Uranian mascot of yours resorted to suicide, I am

certain that you would save yourselves much

anguish of mind. That is all. Korse Bradlow, the

Ringmaster, has other business. Goodbye, trouble

shooter! Farewell!”

Then Bradlow saw the ships of his following burst

apart with a dazzling flare of light

“ Y

Raymond Z. Gallun

Saturn’s Ringmaster

Thrilling Wonder, December, 1936

Raff Orethon, strapped in the wrecked cabin

of his spaceboat, was dimly aware of the words

that clicked faintly in the etherphones of his

oxygen helmet. His faculties were still numb from

the crash. In them there was room for scarcely

more than one thought—he had failed.

Foggily he saw Korse Bradlow creep over

the rusty surface of the meteor against which the

ruined spaceboat was telescoped. He saw him

straighten up, holding the metal box which

contained the pilfered Esar models tightly against

the side of his vacuum armor. He saw Bradlow

jump athletically clear of the great lump of cosmic

refuse, catch the door-rail of his own gaudily

gilded ship floating free in the ether, open the

valve, and disappear into the interior.

A moment later the rockets of the golden

craft spat blasts of incandescent flame, and it

hurtled away, clear of the immeasurably frosty

glory of Saturn’s Rings. Its form dwindled swiftly

among the brittle stars.

“What are we going to do now, Orethon?”

gifted with some touch of poetic humor, had

called himself the Ringmaster. And he had acted

promptly. Approaching from the rear, he had

disabled Raff’s flier with a protonic blast, and had

caused it to dive into the Rings, where it had been

smashed against a meteor. The fact that Orethon

had survived the collision, was one of those

strange tricks of relativity.

The meteor, hurtling around Saturn at a

velocity of many miles per second, had been

going just a shade slower than the uncontrolled

ship, and in the same direction. And so Raff and

his weird companion still lived. And because they

were harmless and half stunned and the death by

suffocation which was in store for them appealed

to his sadistic nature, Bradlow had let them live.

But he had taken the Esar models from them.

Young Orethon could grasp all the details of

the situation now.

Dazedly he looked down at the large fibrotex

pocket on the front of his space suit. It bulged

with abhorrent contents.

“What are we going to do, Ruzza?” he

questioned irritably. “Nothing but admire the

scenery, I guess—until our oxygen gives out.”

Ruzza was a native of the buried caves of

Uranus. It was his bulk, which would have

weighed a scant three pounds on Earth, that

caused Raff’s pocket to bulge. Ruzza was a

grotesquely humorous demonstration of the fact

that all intelligent forms of life need not be

wrought in human shape. His body was a ball of

leathery brown flesh, pronged with sensitive

prehensile feelers. Four of them, longer and

thicker than the others, and covered by protecting

sheaths of transparent, cellophane-like material,

were thrust ludicrously out of the top of the

pocket. They wavered from side to side with a

restless motion.

At their tips, looking through the clear

texture of his odd space attire, were bright, beady,

intelligent eyes. Ruzza was a scientist of note in

his own country. His association with Orethon—a

matter now of seven Earth months—was an

expression of an adventurous yearning in the

unnamed soul of the tiny creature. He had paid in

bars of priceless actinium for the privilege of

traveling around with Orethon on his police

duties; and though the young Earthman had often

found Ruzza’s constant presence annoying, he had

HE question, sounding now in Raff’s

etherphones, was certainly human enough as

far as its arrangement and meaning went; but the

curious tinny rasp of it suggested the tones of

some cheap and ancient phonograph. And to an

uninformed observer its point of origin might

have been puzzling at first. It came from the

tympanic voice-membrane of Ruzza of Uranus.

Raff did not answer at once. He was trying to

straighten things out—trying to remember just

what had happened.

The Esar models had been intended for

delivery to the colony on the Saturnian moon,

Titan; and he had set out from Mars to take them

there. But somehow, probably through the agency

of his efficient spy system, Korse Bradlow,

greatest rogue within the orbit of Pluto, had

learned of the mission and had foreseen its

purpose. It was a gesture of the forces of law

against his piratical depredations.

When a full-sized Esar apparatus had been

constructed, its deadly energy shield would screen

the domes of the colony, rendering them forever

impervious to attack. But meanwhile police craft

could continue their assaults on Bradlow’s camp

on Tethys without fear of reprisal.

It was a dangerous situation for him who,

Raymond Z. Gallun

Saturn’s Ringmaster

Thrilling Wonder, December, 1936

endured it because of the pay. Any enterprising

youth would have done so.

The Uranian gave his buzzing version of a

human laugh. “At least the scenery is very nice,

eh, friend?” he questioned.

“You heard his little speech of departure,” he

said. “Isn’t that enough? Among the renegade

Terrestrials and Martians in his outfit, there are

plenty of skilled mechanics. He’ll build a big Esar

apparatus to protect his headquarters on Tethys, of

course. And he can make another apparatus to

screen his fleet. From behind the screen he can

blast our orderly colony on Titan out of existence

if it doesn’t submit. But it will—eventually. He’ll

rule the whole system of Saturn! So far from their

home bases, no Earthly or Martian fleet would

dare oppose him. And his depredations against

commerce will doubtless continue.”

“Zaah, Raff Orethon!” Ruzza buzzed. “It

must not happen!”

The Earthman felt exasperation rising within

RETHON agreed with a sullen nod. It was

Ruzza’s endless effort to be friendly that

irritated him most. But he could not disagree with

the little fellow now.

The spectacle around them was the most

grandly beautiful in the solar system, and perhaps

in the entire universe. The large meteor on which

they were marooned was one of myriads that were

in sight. Their range in size was tremendous;

some were as massive as small mountains, while

an immeasurable host of others were as fine as

grains of dust. Glowing silvery with the reflected

rays of the distant sun, they formed a tremendous

arching pathway, the width of several Earths.

Close at hand, the path was murky, like a

haze; but distance sharpened its outlines until it

became a great ribbon curving around the cloud-

wrapped bulk of Saturn. Each cosmic lump and

particle that composed it was a minute moon of

the monster planet.

Beyond the filmy texture of the Rings, the

greater satellites glowed sullenly—Mimas, Rhea,

Titan, Tethys—Tethys, home of Bradlow’s band.

Beyond the moon were the stars, eerily bright

against the frigid blackness of infinity.

Under other circumstances Raff Orethon

might have found the view even more interesting.

But now the harsh grandeur of it only served to

emphasize the helplessness of his position. His

spaceboat was wrecked beyond any possibility of

repair; a glance through the shattered observation

window at its crumpled prow, gleaming in the

contrasting lights of many spheres, was enough to

tell him that.

And it was not only his life and the Uranian’s

that would be lost; many Titan colonists would

perish, and many others would be reduced to a

state of slavery. Korse Bradlow would have his

way now.

“What will the Ringmaster do, now that he

has the repulsion shield?” Ruzza demanded

suddenly.

Raff shrugged, annoyed by what seemed to

him a childish question.

him.

“I’m with you that way, Ruzza,” he said. “It

must not happen. But I’m afraid it will in spite of

anything we can do to prevent it. We’re stranded

here until doomsday. We can’t even save our own

necks. Our etherphones, even at maximum power,

couldn’t send a warning all the way to Titan, even

if such a warning would do any good. Our ship

can’t be repaired, and if it could be, we’d still find

it impossible to get far. This is Bradlow’s

territory; his patrols are never far out of sight. A

damaged flier could never escape.”

“Supposing some small trick of invisibility

were used?” Ruzza queried.

“It would be nice,” Raff replied with bitter

sarcasm. “It would be easy for us to go right to

work and invent an invisibility machine—

something which has never been effectively

accomplished on any of the known planets.”

Ruzza’s prongs bristled within the pocket

that held him.

“You do not understand what I mean, Raff

Orethon!” he shrilled. “It is simpler than that!

Wait! Put me down!”

Obediently the Earthman hoisted Ruzza from

his odd refuge, and lowered him to the floor of the

cabin. The Uranian, clad in his transparent space

garment, drew himself with his feelers through the

opening left when the craft’s door had bulged

from its hinges. Raff looked into the periscope to

watch him in his swift scrambling progress astern.

Presently Ruzza disappeared into a rent in the

crumpled jumble of the spaceboat’s tail assembly.

Raymond Z. Gallun

Saturn’s Ringmaster

Thrilling Wonder, December, 1936

THERE was a long silence, during which Orethon

remained in the cabin, tentatively fussing with the

machine-gun with which the craft was equipped.

The weapon’s long barrel was badly twisted at the

muzzle. But it would be possible to saw off the

ruined part, thus making the gun practically as

good as new. The complicated sighting

mechanism seemed undamaged. But at these

thoughts Raff’s lips curled cynically. What was

the use? He and Ruzza were hopelessly trapped

and impotent.

Then the Uranian’s voice buzzed and shrilled

again in Orethon’s helmet phones: “One rocket

tube is intact, and another is not beyond repair,”

Ruzza announced.

“So?” Raff questioned. “What about it? All

the new rockets on Earth and Mars wouldn’t put

this pile of junk into flying trim again!”

“Wait, Raff Orethon,” Ruzza answered. “I

have the beginning of a plan. I will explain. But

we must be careful. The power of our etherphones

must be cut down to minimum so that no one will

hear.”

Raff was mildly curious.

“Mine’s at minimum, of course,” he said.

“Shoot!”

He listened while the Uranian outlined his

sketchily conceived scheme in low, buzzing tones.

His hard young face, illumined by the contrasting

lights of Saturn’s system, underwent many swift

changes. First it showed the chagrin of doubt, then

dawning wonder, then hope. Finally all his natural

enthusiasm and resourcefulness, which had

seemed to be drained out of him, returned.

Once more he was his old, energetic, forceful

Raff’s brows knitted as he sought to

concentrate. His gaze fell on the tiny atomic

projectiles in the belts of the machine-gun. Each

projectile was filled with an explosive of

tremendous violence; and each was fitted with a

time fuse that could delay explosion a full minute

from the instant of percussion.

Suddenly he was very grateful for the

possibilities of those fuses. The delay they offered

might spell the difference between life and death

for his small, startling companion, and for

himself.

“Come on, Ruzza!” he said at last. “We’ve

got a lot to do, but it won’t take long if we will

only hurry!”

He unstrapped himself and kicked the ruined

door of the flier out of his way. He had tools in his

kit—blast-welders, chisels, wrenches. Gingerly he

clambered forth onto the pitted surface of the

meteor. Its gravity was almost nothing, and a too

abrupt movement might have set him adrift in

spite of his magnetized boots which attracted the

nickel-iron alloy under him.

Like a tumbleweed Ruzza bowled toward

him to help. Saturn and its moons looked on, as if

fascinated by the strange machinations of living

creatures.

KILFULLY Korse Bradlow guided his gilded

space flier toward Tethys. A cruel smirk of

triumph curved his thin lips. He was pleased, and

he was off guard. He was within his own section

of space. There was but one danger that he knew

about, and it was not a great one. Meteors were

plentiful here, so close to Saturn’s Rings. Because

of them, and because there was no reason to

hurry, he pursued his course at leisure.

His thoughts were pleasant. The exquisite bit

of piracy he had just accomplished would be

accepted by the horde he commanded as sure

evidence of his right to rule. That was why he had

undertaken the theft of the Esar models single-

handed. His following, gleaned from the criminal

ranks of a solar system, was a fickle crowd at best.

To remain its leader, a man must constantly

demonstrate his prowess.

And Korse Bradlow knew that he was the

only man fit to command. He had made

Bradlow’s Circus; he had made himself its

Ringmaster. Without him, petty and bloody

self.

“It’s worth a try, Ruzza,” he said grimly.

“Maybe it won ‘t work, but we can’t help that.”

For a minute he sat chewing his lip and tried

to clear up in his mind the hazier phases of the

plan.

“We’ll have to get rid of what’s left of the

ship,” he mused. “But that should be easy. All we

have to do is shove it off into space. And we’ll

have to plot our course carefully, because we

won’t have the use of the usual well-balanced

guiding machinery. There’ll be the danger of

colliding with meteors, of course; but that’s a risk

we’ll have to take. Some of Bradlow’s men will

get us in the end. Or—or maybe—not—”

Raymond Z. Gallun

Saturn’s Ringmaster

Thrilling Wonder, December, 1936

differences would soon cause it to break up, its

various factions falling easy prey to the police

patrols.

But his position was doubly assured now. In

his mind’s eye he could picture pleasant things

that soon would happen. He could see ships,

protected by the blue fire of the repulsion shield,

hurtling down upon Titan, smashing the domes of

its Colony and whipping its people into

submission. Titan would yield before other Esar

models could be sent to the harassed inhabitants.

Korse Bradlow was happy, steeped in his

rambling dreams—dreams which seemed as

certain to be realized as tomorrow’s dawn and

dusk, on Earth.

He did not glance into his rear-vision

periscope. But had he done so at the proper

moment, he might have seen a slender sword of

incandescent flame limned against Saturn’s

tremendous bulk.

It might have been the fiery wake of any

ordinary spacecraft, building up speed. The

rockets of vessels that navigate the ether are not

continuously active during flight. They flame only

when a change in velocity or direction is

necessary; otherwise, in the frictionless void, no

application of power is required. A ship can coast

on at undiminished speed for an indefinite if not

infinite distance.

Presently the nearing trail of incandescence

died out. Bradlow had not seen it; and if he had,

be would have thought only that one of his

henchmen was on a scouting tour somewhere

astern.

And then a little red light gleamed on his

instrument panel. Someone was calling him by

etherphone.

Switches moved in his grasp.

“The Ringmaster speaking,” he drawled into

the microphone inside his oxygen helmet. His

voice was lazy and bored.

“You were a fool to let Ruzza and me live,

Bradlow,” came the words.

Though the Ringmaster recognized the

speaker at once, he was not alarmed.

“So, Orethon?” he questioned.

“Yes, Bradlow,” was the calm reply. “We

have tricks up our sleeves other than the Esar

shield. You did not know that we were carrying

another invention to Titan—one which will render

a space ship invisible, It is in operation now, my

friend. You will notice, too, if you take

observations with your direction finder, that the

waves which bring this message to you come from

a point of origin which you will consider

impossible. We have changed position, Bradlow.

We are no longer in the Rings. We are clear of

them, and we are coming toward you with intent

to kill. How it is that we have moved, I leave you

to guess.”

The Ringmaster’s laugh was low and

scornful.

“I admire your nerve, Orethon,” he said.

“Probably I’d try a bluff, too, if I were one of the

living dead, as you are.”

EVERTHELESS Bradlow turned his

attention to a rectangular coil of wire,

mounted on a universal joint. He pointed its axis

in the direction of the place where Orethon and

Ruzza should be, allowing for the steady rotation

of the substance of the Rings. Then he watched

the bobbing needle of a sensitive galvanometer.

Its reading did not balance as it should with the

strength of the incoming carrier waves, which,

though Orethon was not speaking at the moment,

were still being broadcast. Bradlow moved the

coil experimentally, seeking the point of balance.

And at last he found it, high up, clear of the Rings

as Orethon had said!

A frown of worried puzzlement creased the

Ringmaster’s brow. What the young patrol pilot

had said was obviously true in part at least. But

that all of it could be true was of course

impossible. And yet, who could be sure? For a

moment Korse Bradlow felt a twinge of dread.

Then, before him, against the star curtain of space,

he saw the slender forms of seven fliers. Some of

his followers were coming to meet him. Their

presence served to banish the faint uncertainty

which had touched his iron nerves.

Orethon’s voice was speaking again in his

helmet phones. “I believe that by now you have

found that what I have told you is not entirely a

bluff, Bradlow,” it stated coolly. “I seem pretty

sure of myself, don’t I? Probably you’ve got a

young space navy within call. You’d better yell

for help, Bradlow.”

The Ringmaster betrayed none of the fury the

insult aroused in him.

Raymond Z. Gallun - Saturn's Ringmaster.pdf

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