DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fan, issue 2, July 1945

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Fan, issue 2, July 1945

Page 8

8

that meant more to him than his own life. "Haigst, as there's a God in heaven, you'll never get away with this! You may kill me too, but I swear---"

"Stop the sermon, Adams. There's no revenge where you're going." Haigst waived the electro-tube suggestively.

Adams had been waiting for that careless movement. And Hagist was unprepared for the old man's quickness. The latter's hand darted into his pocket and up again in a single swift motion. He held something metallic. There came an echoing roar.

Hagist heard something zing past his ear. Then his own electro-tube flashed once, silently, a pencil-thin beam of electric blue. It caught the old man squarely in the chest, leaving a neat hole completely through him. Adams staggered forward, his face puzzled as though he couldn't understand what had happened or why. His mouth was open wide, but only a coughing sound emerged. His arm was still raised, the gun still levelled; then it twisted by its own weight on his finger, and seemed to pull him forward on his face. He crashed at Hagist's feet.

Hagist looked down at him. He bent and picked up the old man's weapon. One of the late twentieth century pistols that fired metallic pellets. Some men still preferred them, especially the old-timers.

"Pretty fair try," Hagist said contemptuously, "but imagine missing at five feet. Give me an electro-pistol any day." He turned up his nose at the acrid powder odor that still clung to the room.

Donning his space-suit, he carried the old man to the air-lock and tossed him out. With a few deft strokes of the electro-tube he disfigured the body so it would never be recognized if found. "Another neat use for a electro-pistol," he murmured, caressing the deadly little weapon.

Entering the room where he had left the platimum ore, he smiled down at it; a smile of satisfaction at a job well done.

"One hundred percent," he said aloud. "From thirty-three percent to one hundred! Not bad."

He re-entered the control room and looked at the moving chart of the solar system, standard equipment on every space vessel. A tiny line in red ink -- the course of the ship -- was being slowly traced across it. Unerringly it moved in its straight line toward Earth. No, not straight -- for Hagist knew that nothing moved in a straight line in space. Always parabolas. And this parabola would end precisely at Earth.

Hagist nodded.  This was the final proof. The robot control was unerring. Even the rocket-tube feed was automatic. He stepped to the feed control and turned in on full, exulting as the spacer leaped ahead. Back to Earth! Back with riches! Back with the metal that would have made three men rich -- but would make one man powerful!

Saving...

8 that meant more to him than his own life. "Haigst, as there's a God in heaven, you'll never get away with this! You may kill me too, but I swear---" "Stop the sermon, Adams. There's no revenge where you're going." Haigst waived the electro-tube suggestively. Adams had been waiting for that careless movement. And Hagist was unprepared for the old man's quickness. The latter's hand darted into his pocket and up again in a single swift motion. He held something metallic. There came an echoing roar. Hagist heard something zing past his ear. Then his own electro-tube flashed once, silently, a pencil-thin beam of electric blue. It caught the old man squarely in the chest, leaving a neat hole completely through him. Adams staggered forward, his face puzzled as though he couldn't understand what had happened or why. His mouth was open wide, but only a coughing sound emerged. His arm was still raised, the gun still levelled; then it twisted by its own weight on his finger, and seemed to pull him forward on his face. He crashed at Hagist's feet. Hagist looked down at him. He bent and picked up the old man's weapon. One of the late twentieth century pistols that fired metallic pellets. Some men still preferred them, especially the old-timers. "Pretty fair try," Hagist said contemptuously, "but imagine missing at five feet. Give me an electro-pistol any day." He turned up his nose at the acrid powder odor that still clung to the room. Donning his space-suit, he carried the old man to the air-lock and tossed him out. With a few deft strokes of the electro-tube he disfigured the body so it would never be recognized if found. "Another neat use for a electro-pistol," he murmured, caressing the deadly little weapon. Entering the room where he had left the platimum ore, he smiled down at it; a smile of satisfaction at a job well done. "One hundred percent," he said aloud. "From thirty-three percent to one hundred! Not bad." He re-entered the control room and looked at the moving chart of the solar system, standard equipment on every space vessel. A tiny line in red ink -- the course of the ship -- was being slowly traced across it. Unerringly it moved in its straight line toward Earth. No, not straight -- for Hagist knew that nothing moved in a straight line in space. Always parabolas. And this parabola would end precisely at Earth. Hagist nodded. This was the final proof. The robot control was unerring. Even the rocket-tube feed was automatic. He stepped to the feed control and turned in on full, exulting as the spacer leaped ahead. Back to Earth! Back with riches! Back with the metal that would have made three men rich -- but would make one man powerful!