Rocketship Galileo

Chapter 17 - UNTIL WE ROT

FOR ONCE ROSS WAS ALMOST as speech-bound as Art. When he was able to make his words behave he demanded, "Are you sure? Are you sure, Doc?"

Cargraves nodded. "As sure as I can be at this time. I wondered why the Nazis had built such a deep and extensive a base and why they had chosen to use fitted stone masonry. It would be hard to do, working in a space suit. But I assigned it to their reputation for doing things the hard way, what they call ‘efficiency.' I should have known better." He peered down the mysterious, gloomy corridor. "Certainly this was not built in the last few months."

"How long ago, do you think?"

"How long? How long is a million years? How long is ten million years? I don't know—I have trouble imagining a thousand years. Maybe we'll never know."

Ross wanted to explore. Cargraves shook his head. "We can't go chasing rabbits. This is wonderful, the biggest thing in ages. But it will wait. Right now," he said, glancing at his watch, "we've got eleven minutes to finish the job and get back up to the surface—or things will start happening up there!"

He covered the rest of the layout at a fast trot, with Ross guarding his rear from the central hall. He found the radio ‘shack', with a man dead in his phones, and noted that the equipment did not appear to have suffered much damage when the whirlwind of escaping air had slammed out of the place. Farther on, an arsenal contained bombs for the jeep, and rifles, but no men.

He found the storeroom for the guided missiles, more than two hundred of them, although the cradles were only half used up. The sight of them should have inspired terror, knowing as he did that each represented a potentially dead and blasted city, but he had no time for it. He rushed on.

There was a smaller room, well furnished, which seemed to be sort of a wardroom or common room for the officers. It was there that he found a Nazi who was not as the others.

He was sprawled face down and dressed in a space suit. Although he did not move Cargraves approached him very cautiously.

The man was either dead or unconscious. However, he did not have the grimace of death on his face and his suit was still under pressure. Wondering what to do, Cargraves knelt over him. There was a pistol in his belt; Cargraves took it and stuck it in his own.

He could feel no heart beat through the heavy suit and his own gauntlet, nor could he listen for it, while wearing a helmet himself.

His watch showed five minutes of the agreed time left; whatever he did must be done fast. He grappled the limp form by the belt and dragged it along.

"What have you got there?" Ross demanded.

"Souvenir. Let's get going. No time." He saved his breath for the climb. The sixty-pound weight that he and his burden made, taken together, flew up the stairs six at a time. At the top his watch still showed two minutes to go. "Leg it out to the jeep," he commanded Ross. "I can't take this item there, or Morrie may decide it's a trap. Meet me in the Wotan. Get going!" Heaving his light burden over one shoulder, he set out for the big ship at a gallop.

Once inside he put his load down and took the man out of his space suit. The body was warm but seemed dead. However, he found he could detect a faint heart-beat. He was starting an artificial respiration when the boys piled out of the lock.

"Hi," he said, "who wants to relieve me here? I don't know much about it."

"Why bother?" asked Morrie.

Cargraves paused momentarily and looked at him quizzically. "Well, aside from the customary reasons you have been brought up to believe in, he might be more use to us alive than dead."

Morrie shrugged. "Okay. I'll take over." He dropped to his knees, took Cargraves' place, and started working.

"Did you bring them up to date?," Cargraves asked Ross.

"I gave them a quick sketch. Told them the place seemed to be ours and I told them what we found—the ruins."

"Not very ruined," Cargraves remarked.

"Look, Uncle," demanded Art. "Can I go down there? I've got to get some pictures."

"Pictures can wait," Cargraves pointed out. "Right now we've got to find out how this ship works. As soon as we get the hang of it, we head back. That comes first."

"Well, sure," Art conceded, "but... after all—I mean. No pictures at all?"

"Well... Let's put it this way. It may take Ross and Morrie and me, not to mention yourself, quite some time to figure out how they handle this craft. There might be twenty minutes when we could spare you. In the meantime, table the motion. Come on, Ross. By the way, what did you do with the prisoner?"

"Oh, him," Morrie answered, "we tied him up and left him."

"Huh? Suppose he gets loose? He might steal the rocket."

"He won't get loose. I tied him myself and I took a personal interest in it. Anyhow he won't try to get away—no space suit, no food. That baby knows his chance of living to a ripe old age depends on us and he doesn't want to spoil it."

"That's right, Uncle," Art agreed. "You should have heard what he promised me."

"Good enough, I guess," Cargraves conceded. "Come on, Ross." Morrie went on with his job, with Art to spell him.

Cargraves returned, with Ross, to the central compartment a few minutes later. "Isn't that pile of meat showing signs of life yet?," he asked.

"No. Shall I stop?"

"I'll relieve you. Sometimes they come to after an hour or more. Two of you go over to the jeep with an additional space suit and bring back Sergeant What's-his-name. Ross and I are as much in the dark as ever," he explained. "The sergeant bloke is a pilot. We'll sweat it out of him."

He had no more than gotten firmly to work when the man under him groaned. Morrie turned back at the lock. "Go ahead," Cargraves confirthed. "Ross and I can handle this guy."

The Nazi stirred and moaned. Cargraves turned him over. The man's eyelids flickered, showing bright blue eyes. He stared up at Cargraves. "How do you do?" he said in a voice like a stage Englishman. "May I get up from here?"

Cargraves backed away and let him up. He did not help him.

The man looked around. Ross stood silently, covering him with a Garand. "That isn't necessary, really," the Nazi protested. Ross glanced at Cargraves but continued to cover the prisoner. The man turned to Cargraves. "Whom have I the honor of addressing?" he asked. "Is it Captain Cargraves of the Galileo?"

"That's right. Who are you?"

"I am Helmut von Hartwick, Lieutenant Colonel, Elite Guard." He pronounced lieutenant "leftenant."

"Okay, Helmut, suppose you start explaining yourself. Just what is the big idea?"

The self-styled colonel laughed. "Really, old man, there isn't much to explain, is there? You seem to have eluded us somehow and placed me at a disadvantage. I can see that."

"You had better see that, but that is not what I mean, and that is not enough." Cargraves hesitated. The Nazi had him somewhat baffled; he did not act at all like a man who has just come out of a daze. Perhaps he had been playing possum—if so, for how long?

Well, it did not matter, he decided. The Nazi was still his prisoner. "Why did you order my ship bombed?"

"Me? My dear chap, why do you think I ordered it?"

"Because you sound just like the phony English accent we heard over our radio. You called yourself ‘Captain James Brown.' I don't suppose there is more than one fake Englishman in this crowd of gangsters."

Von Hartwick raise his eyebrows. "‘Gangsters' is a harsh term, old boy. Hardly good manners. But you are correct on one point; I was the only one of my colleagues who had enjoyed the questionable advantage of attending a good English school. I'll ask you not to call my accent ‘phony.' But, even if I did borrow the name ‘Captain James Brown,' that does not prove that I ordered your ship bombed. That was done under the standing orders of our Leader—a necessary exigency of war. I was not personally responsible."

"I think you are a liar on both counts. I don't think you ever attended an English school; you probably picked up that fake accent from Lord Haw-Haw, or from listening to the talkies. And your Leader did not order us bombed, because he did not know we were there. You ordered it, just as soon as you could trace a bearing on us, as soon as you found out we were here."

The Nazi spread his. hands, palms down, and looked pained. "Really, you Americans are so ready to jump to conclusions. Do you truly think that I could fuel a rocket, call its crew, and equip it for bombing, all in ten minutes? My only function was to report your location."

"You expected us, then?"

"Naturally. If a stupid radarman had not lost you when you swung into your landing orbit, we would have greeted you much sooner. Surely you don't think that we would have established a military base without preparing to defend it? We plan, we plan for everything. That is why we will win."

Cargraves permitted himself a thin smile. "You don't seem to have planned for this."

The Nazi tossed it off. "In war there are setbacks. One expects them."

"Do you call it ‘war' to bomb an unarmed, civilian craft without even a warning?"

Hartwick looked pained. "Please, my dear fellow! It ill befits you to split hairs. You seemed to have bombed us without warning. I myself would not be alive this minute had I not had the good fortune to be just removing my suit when you struck. I assure you I had no warning. As for your claim to being a civilian, unarmed craft, I think it very strange that the Galileo was able to blast our base if you carried nothing more deadly than a fly swatter. You Americans amaze me. You are always so ready to condemn others for the very things you do yourselves."

Cargraves was at a loss for words at the blind illogic of the speech. Ross looked disgusted; he seemed about to say something. Cargraves shook his head at him.

"That speech," he announced, "had more lies, half-truths, and twisted statements per square inch than anything you've said yet. But I'll put you straight on one point: the Galileo didn't bomb your base; she's wrecked. But your men were careless. We seized your rocket and turned your own bombs on you-"

"Idioten!"

"They were stupid, weren't they? The Master Race usually is stupid when it comes to a showdown. But you claimed we bombed you without warning. That is not true; you had all the warning you were entitled to and more. You struck the first blow. It's merely your own cocksureness that led you to think we couldn't or wouldn't strike back."

Von Hartwick started to speak. "Shut up!" Cargraves said sharply. "I'm tired of your nonsense. Tell me how you happen to have this American ship. Make it good."

"Oh, that! We bought it."

"Don't be silly."

"I am not being silly. Naturally we did not walk in and place an order for one military space ship, wrapped and delivered. The transaction passed through several hands and eventually our friends delivered to us what we needed."

Cargraves thought rapidly. It was possible; something of the sort had to be true. He remembered vaguely an order for twelve such ships as the Wotan had originally been designed to be, remembered it because the newspapers had hailed the order as a proof of post-war recovery, expansion, and prosperity.

He wondered if all twelve of those rockets were actually operating on the run for which they had supposedly been purchased.

"That is the trouble with you stupid Americans," von Hartwick went on. "You assume that every one shares your silly belief in such rotten things as democracy. But it is not true. We have friends everywhere. Even in Washington, in London, yes, even in Moscow. Our friends are everywhere. That is another reason why we will win."

"Even in New Mexico, maybe?"

Von Hartwick laughed. "That was a droll comedy, my friend. I enjoyed the daily reports. It would not have suited us to frighten you too much, until it began to appear that you might be successful. You were very lucky, my friend, that you took off as soon as you did."

"Don't call me ‘my friend'," Cargraves said testily. "I'm sick of it."

"Very well, my dear Captain." Cargraves let the remark pass. He was getting worried by the extended absence of Art and Morrie. Was it possible that some other of the Nazis were still around, alive and capable of making trouble?

He was beginning to think about tying up the prisoner here present and going to look for them when the lock sighed open. Morrie and Art stepped out, prodding the other prisoner before them. "He didn't want to come, Uncle," Art informed him. "We had to convince him a little." He chuckled. "I don't think he trusts us."

"Okay. Get your suits off."

The other prisoner seemed completely dumfounded by the sight of von Hartwick. Hastily he unclamped his helmet, threw it back, and said in German, "Herr Oberst—it was not my fault. I was-"

"Silence!" shouted the Nazi officer, also in German. "Have you told these pig-dogs anything about the operation of this ship?"

"Nein, nein, Herr Oberst—I swear it!"

"Then play stupid or I'll cut your heart out!"

Cargraves listened to this interesting little exchange with an expressionless face, but it was too much for Art. "Uncle," he demanded, "did you hear that? Did you hear what he said he'd do?"

Von Hartwick looked from nephew to uncle. "So you understand German?" he said quietly. "I was afraid that you might." Ross had let the muzzle of his gun wander away from von Hartwick when the boys came in with their prisoner. Cargraves had long since shoved the pistol he had appropriated into his belt.

Von Hartwick glanced from one to another. Morrie and Art were both armed, one with a Garand, the other with revolver, but they had them trained on the Nazi pilot. Von Hartwick lunged suddenly at Cargraves and snatched the pistol from his belt.

Without appearing to stop to take aim he fired once. Then Cargraves was at him, clawing at his hands.

Von Hartwick brought the pistol down on his head, club fashion, and moved in to grapple him about the waist.

The Nazi pilot clasped his hands to his chest, gave a single bubbly moan, and sank to the floor. No one paid him any attention. After a split second of startled inaction, the three boys were milling around, trying to get in a shot at von Hartwick without hitting Cargraves. Cargraves himself had jerked and gone limp when the barrel of the pistol struck his head. Von Hartwick held the doctor's thirty pounds of moon-weight up with one arm. He shouted, "Silence!"

His order would have had no effect had not the boys seen something else: Von Hartwick was holding the pistol to Cargraves' head. "Careful, gentlemen," he said, speaking very rapidly. "I have no wish to harm your leader and will not do so unless you force me. I am sorry I was forced to strike him; I was forced to do so when he attacked me."

"Watch out!" commanded Morrie. "Art! Ross! Don't try to shoot."

"That is sensible," von Hartwick commended him. "I have no wish to try to shoot it out with you. My only purpose was to dispose of him." He indicated the body of the Nazi pilot.

Morrie glanced at it. "Why?"

"He was a soft and foolish pig. I could not afford to risk his courage. He would have told you what you want to know." He paused, and then said suddenly, "And now—I am your prisoner again!" The pistol sailed out of his hand and clanged against the floor.

"Get Doc out of my way," Ross snapped. "I can't get a shot in."

"No!" Morrie thundered. "Art, pick up the pistol. Ross, you take care of Doc."

"What are you talking about?" Ross objected. "He's a killer. I'll finish him off."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Well—Doc wouldn't like it. That's reason enough. Don't shoot. That's an order, Ross. You take care of Doc. Art, you tie up the mug. Make it good."

"It'll be good!" promised Art.

The Nazi did not resist and Morrie found himself able to give some attention to what Ross was doing. "How bad is it?" he inquired, bending over Cargraves.

"Not too bad, I think. I'll know better when I get some of this blood wiped away."

"You will find dressings and such things," von Hartwick put in casually, as if he were not in the stages of being tied up, "in a kit under the instrument board in the control room."

"Go look for them, Ross," Morrie directed. "I'll keep guard. Not," he said to von Hartwick, "that it will do you any good if he dies. If he does, out you go, outside, without a suit. Shooting's too good for you."

"He won't die. I hit him very carefully."

"You had better hope he doesn't. You won't outlive him more than a couple of minute."

Von Hartwick shrugged. "It is hardly possible to threaten me. We are all dead men. You realize that, don't you?"

Morrie looked at him speculatively. "Finished with him, Art? Sure he's tied up tight?"

"He'll choke himself to death if he tries to wiggle out of that one."

"Good. Now you," he went on to von Hartwick, "you may be a dead man. I wouldn't know. But we're not. We are going to fly this ship back to earth. You start behaving yourself and we might take you with us."

Von Hartwick laughed. "Sorry to disillusion you, dear boy, but none of us is going back to earth. That is why I had to dispose of that precious pilot of mine."

Morrie turned away, suddenly aware that no one had bothered to find out how badly the sergeant-pilot was wounded. He was soon certain; the man was dead, shot through the heart. "I can't see that it matters," he told von Hartwick.. "We've still got you. You'll talk, or I'll cut your ears off and feed them to you."

"What a distressing thought," he was answered, "but it. won't help you. You see, I am unable to tell you anything; I am not a pilot."

Art stared at him. "He's kidding you, Morrie."

"No," von Hartwick denied. "I am not. Try cutting my ears off and you will see. No, my poor boys, we are all going to stay here a long time, until we rot, in fact. Heil dem Führer!"

"Don't touch him, Art," Morrie warned. "Doc wouldn't like it."