Chapter I: Front Matter

Passage To Planet X

By HENRY HASSE

They trailed a legend through the void,
seeking a world of freedom, adventure and
wealth. They reached their goal, a planet
beyond all planets, a weird land of the
Lost--where silent death prepared to strike.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Mark Travers hoisted himself up from the floor. He leaned against the supply locker, rubbed his aching jaw where the big man's fist had just landed, and grinned ruefully.

The big spaceman didn't grin. He faced Mark straddle-legged and snapped, "Who are you?"

"Mark Travers." His smooth gray eyes surveyed the man's bulk. He thought he could handle him, but filed it for future reference when he saw the neutro-gun in the other's fist.

"Travers, eh. A blasted stowaway! You come aboard at Marsport?"

"Obviously."

"How?"

"It was easy," Mark shrugged. "Your ship was small, dark, and carried no insignia. I watched your men loading supplies secretly. Furthermore, you hadn't filed your destination with Central Bureau. Just the kind of set-up I wanted."

"You know a lot," the big spaceman's eyes went hard. "Are you a sneaking I-S-P? Never mind. I'll see for myself!" He came a step forward, and his gun got playful with the third button on Mark's plasticoid shirt. Expertly the man's fingers went over him.

"Careful, there, I'm ticklish!"

"So's the release on this trigger, so just stand still."

Mark stood still. The search revealed no papers or identification of any kind.

"I'm not I-S-P," Mark told him sincerely. "If I were, do you think you'd ever have lifted gravs from Marsport?"

"Okay, fella. I'm Mal Driscoll. Sorry I had to clip you so hard, but you never should have pointed that contraption at me when I stepped in here. So help me, I thought it was some new kind of weapon." His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

For a mere second Mark hesitated. He glanced down at the small, stub-lensed box which he had clung to.

"Why, it's--only a camera. New type, invention of my own."

Driscoll nodded. "Come on, stowaway. We'll go up and see Janus. No skin off my teeth, if he wants to keep you aboard."

They stepped out of the room and along a corridor, bracing themselves against the forward thrust of the rocket engines.

"Who's Janus?"

"Our Commander."

"And what if he doesn't want me aboard?" Unobserved, Mark pressed a hidden stud in the black box. Tiny but powerful coils hummed to life, quickly ascended the scale to the inaudible. Camera? Mark smiled to himself and hoped none of the men here knew anything about cameras!

"You know the space-code on that," Driscoll answered his question. "If it is so desired, stowaways are tossed into space."

Mark racked his brain. "I don't remember that in the Interplanetary Code!"

Driscoll turned, grinned at him. "Who's talking about Interplanetary Code? We make our own!"

* * * * *

Janus was in a forward cabin poring over charts on a glass-topped table. Three other men were lounging there. Janus was six-feet-four, with bulk to match. He had flaming red hair and an outlandish full beard that made a vivid splash against the drab gray of his insulated tunic.

He scowled fiercely as the two men entered. Driscoll pushed Mark forward.

"Found this stowaway in the supply room. Says his name is Mark Travers. I don't think he's I-S-P, though."

Janus' deep-set gray eyes seemed to bore through Mark, then they flashed to the black box.

"What's that?"

"New-design projection camera. It--"

"Put it here," Janus indicated the corner of his desk. Mark did so with some reluctance. This man was no fool!

The other three men had come down off their bunks and stood there watching. One of them, Mark noticed, was a Martian.

"Now. Why are you here?"

"You seemed to be the sort of men I wanted to join up with."

"I said why?"

Mark wondered if this man would believe him. He didn't think so. Nevertheless, he'd already made up his story so he drew a long breath and told it:

"I was with Tri-Planet News Service working out of Chicago. I happened to uncover a huge spacer contract graft. I got the names of the higher ups, photostatic copies of incriminating documents--everything. But the men involved happened to be _too_ high up; my story was squashed before it ever reached the wires. I would have been, too, permanently, but I escaped to Mars--"

Janus was laughing at him behind that red beard. Mark was sure of it. He shrugged and didn't attempt to go on with the fabrication. It had been a good try, anyway.

Janus said dryly: "Now tell me the real story. Or shall I tell you? You received one of the typical BINWI offers. You're running away to cool off, or maybe to keep your invention out of their hands. Is it this--ah--camera?" Janus glanced at the compact box lying there.

"That's right," Mark admitted, marvelling at this man. "They made me several offers but I wouldn't come through. The last one was 'typical', all right--backed up by some of their hired thugs."

"Why didn't you tell me this in the first place?"

"I wasn't sure how you felt about the BINWI." Mark was still wary.

"The same as you do, although I've never had any contact with them personally. My special peeve is the Tri-Planet Council, and the BINWI is a subsidiary. Bureau for the Investigation of New and Worthy Inventions. A laugh, ain't it?"

Mark didn't think so. "That bureau," he said, "is an octopus preying on the inventive genius of three planets! Their spies are everywhere, moving unseen, biding their time. You know the new anti-grav deflectors the Patrollers are using? A man named Anton Kramer worked that out. He had it near perfection when he suddenly disappeared. A month later the deflectors came on the market." Mark's voice was bitter. "There've been dozens of other cases. The BINWI usually gets what it wants, even if it means murder."

Janus nodded. "There's a man aboard who'll agree with you on that! Professor Brownell. Perhaps you shall meet him--later." He turned his gaze to the four crew members. "All right, men, how about Mark Travers? Do we accept him as one of us? A vote is in order."

"How do we know he's not a BINWI spy himself?" asked a small man with piercing black eyes. "He seems to know a lot about 'em!"

"I'm convinced he's not, Ferris. We covered Brownell's trail too well for that. Let's have the vote."

The "ayes" were unanimous and suddenly these men were friendly, smiling, as they stepped forward to shake Mark's hand. They were good handshakes, firm and calloused. Only Ferris' was reluctant.

"There's one thing more," Janus said quietly. "We'll need your picture for our--shall we say--rogue's gallery? I insist on that. Perhaps I can take it now--with your camera." He reached to the black box on his desk, lifted it carelessly up.

* * * * *

Mark found himself staring full into the stub-nosed lenses. Sudden sweat broke on his brow. His gaze lifted and met Janus' gray eyes, straight and steady upon him.

"Wait!"

"What? Not camera shy, are you?" Janus' fingers seemed to fumble, but his gaze never left Mark's face.

"The lens isn't set! It--it's special, you know." Mark stepped forward. His limbs seemed wooden. He took the box from Janus' hands, and pretending to adjust the lens, his thumb found the hidden stud and released it. The hum of the inner coils descended the scale again, became audible for a split second but only to Mark's ears; then they were dead.

He let out a slow breath, handed the box back. "Okay now. Shoot."

Janus waved it away. "Oh, well, it can wait. We'll get it later." He came around the desk, thrust out his hand. "Welcome aboard, Travers! You're one of us."

Mark suddenly knew that Janus knew his secret ... but somehow he wasn't worried. He wondered if any of the others had noticed the by-play; moreover, he wondered what being "one of them" meant....

He was soon to know. At that moment a voice sliced through the radio.

"Callisto calling! Earth-Station Six on Callisto! We have had you in our beam for the past twenty minutes. You are out of bounds and you display no insignia. As this is a violation of the Space-Code, you will go into a drift immediately and await the Patrollers who will escort you to Callisto for investigation! Refusal to obey constitutes outlawry against the Federation, and the Patrol will act accordingly!"

The men weren't startled. If anything they were amused. The one named Dethman simply straightened away from the radio and his hard, square face broke into a grin.

"Think of it, men, we're being outlawed! Now ain't that one for the books?"

The face of Ral Kaarj, the Martian, was blank and leathery. His heavy-lidded eyes blinked once or twice, but only his incongruously high-pitched voice revealed his emotions.

"Tri-Planet Federation!" he shrilled. "Out of bounds! By the red tails of all the Oogs on Venus, ain't anyone supposed to venture beyond the asteroids?"

"Not without sanction of those gray-beards in the Council," Janus said, "and the Earth Corporations who are the real power. You know how they try to squelch men like us, free-footers who won't play ball with 'em." He flicked open the communicator to Brownell in the control room. "How about it, Prof? Get that message?"

"Yes," Mark heard a voice reply. "All right, we'll go into a drift. Let the Patrollers come, we'll give 'em a show!"

"Right! Need any help?"

"No, but keep the communicator open. And take a look in the V-panel if you want." Brownell actually seemed pleased!

Janus clicked on the visipanel, turned the magnifying dials. Callisto was seen in the swimming blackness of space with the huge bulk of Jupiter as a backdrop. Under Janus' sure fingers the scene expanded, came nearer.

Minutes passed; then they saw six Patrollers speeding out to meet them. Brownell had cut rockets and they were in a drift now, waiting.

Waiting for what, Mark wondered. These Patrollers were speedy ships and deadly, equipped with atomo-bombs, dis-rays and magnetic beams! He shifted nervously.

The Patrollers came very near. Then they broke formation, arraying themselves three on each side of the outlaw ship. Magnetic beams, pale green and swirling, reached out to touch the hull. They fastened there tenaciously. In this manner they began the route back to Callisto.

Even Janus seemed a little worried now. He turned to the communicator.

"How about it, Professor? Those beams are powerful? Think you can slip out?"

"Wait and see; I promised a show, didn't I? Tell you what, though, better break out the acceleration harness!"

* * * * *

These were suits within suits, double layers of tough plasticoid. Mark stepped into his, opened the pressure valve that forced air between the two thicknesses. The outer one ballooned, giving a grotesque, roly-poly appearance. He bounced hard against the wall to test it.

"Better open them full," Janus advised.

They were ready. They stood against the far wall and watched the screen across the room. Callisto was looming. They'd soon be within its gravity.

Ferris, standing beside Mark, said in a low voice: "What kind of a news-man are you, Travers? Y'oughta be getting pictures of this. Make swell release stuff when you get back to Earth." His tone was mocking.

Mark felt a growing dislike of this man. He suppressed a retort, said curtly instead: "Too late now." He had placed his "camera" safely in an inside pocket.

The Patrollers' magnetic beams still towed them along at terrific speed, setting up a slight vibration in the walls.

Suddenly there was a new kind of vibration. Mark didn't know what it was. Certainly not rocket tubes.

"Get set!" Janus warned.

Someone muttered: "If he slips out of six magnetic beams--" but that was all. A fierce surge came beneath their feet, and Callisto seemed to leap at them. Within seconds a ghastly nausea gripped their insides. The ballooning suits were pressed so flat against the wall it became impossible to breathe! Their hearts pumped sluggishly, and a gray veil began to form before their eyes....

These were men so accustomed to hardships that space-acceleration meant nothing, but now they were experiencing something new in acceleration. They felt as if their entrails were being compressed into atoms!

Mark could barely see the screen now. The way Callisto was rushing at them he felt sure the planet was going to blank them out. He tried to shut his eyes, but even his eyelids wouldn't move! Then Callisto slipped off the screen, and Mark knew they must have made a sharp parabola. Two of the Patrollers were glimpsed far behind, reaching out futilely with dis-rays.

Even as he struggled for breath, Mark wanted to laugh; but the desire left him suddenly as the tremendous bulk of Jupiter loomed. If they escaped that gravity--

And they did. They came close, but their parabola tightened, then they were pulling away. Speed remained constant as Jupiter faded. Mark could breathe again but he ached through every inch of his body. He could only think wearily.

This, he thought--this meant they must have accelerated to the sixth, seventh or even eighth magnitude!