The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Space Between

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Title: The Space Between

Author: Robert E. Gilbert

Illustrator: Joseph Eberle

Release date: November 3, 2020 [eBook #63613]

Most recently updated: December 5, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SPACE BETWEEN ***

THE SPACE BETWEEN

By ROBERT ERNEST GILBERT

Somewhat like Nathan Hale of old, Jak SP

regretted having but one vitality to give for

his Planet ... and the starry-eyed Drusilla.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Planet Stories Spring 1955.

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

One hour and forty-one minutes before deceleration, the spacecopter materialized off to right, matching precisely the 3360 kilometers per second speed of the Box. Jak SP34509260 jerked erect in answer to blinking red lights and screeching collision whistles. The dark glass and liquid ozone of the control cabin windows gave but a distorted view of space, although enough to show the sleek shape outside.

Drusilla GW414249834, asymmetric in a flowing, floreated, red robe, clamped slender hands over her ears and squawled, "What now, Jak? You know I have a headache! Can't you be considerate?"

Jak pressed a switch, to stop the whistles, and hoped she would not faint again. His wide mouth drooping with concern, he said, "It's O.K., sweetjet. That spacecopter did it. See?"

He activated all viewers.

With rotorwings and fins retracted, the spacecopter resembled a thick, but sharply pointed, needle. Jak increased the magnification of Number 3 viewer until he could read the license, SE-YNWGR. "From Enceladus!" he said. "Saturn's second moon. If I'd known she had a station, we could have looked there for a doc. Did you take that tomato juice off my uniform?"

Drusilla's gray eyes squinted. She stood with such rigidity that her feet floated clear of the deck. She said, "I informed you I'll accept no substitute for the Wollongong Obstetric Hospital on Earth, and I didn't clean your uniform. That cleanser makes me vomit."

"Sorry, sweetjet," Jak mumbled. He wished he could say something just once without upsetting her. He magnetized his shoes and pulled Drusilla down from the ceiling. "I was thinking of you," he pleaded, "but don't you worry. We'll be on Luna in a bit over four earth-days. From there to—"

Drusilla pulled loose and flitted to Number 3 viewer. "Why couldn't you have a plane like that?" she demanded with a dramatic gesture at the needle shape. "The Box! That's what this wreck looks like, a prehistoric boxcar!"

"But, sweetjet, I've told you. Streamlining is useless except in atmosphere. The Box is the most economical construction for—"

"What's that insignia?" Drusilla interrupted. "Like a skull and two bones. What is it?"

Jak turned the knob to maximum magnification. "Umm. I believe that's an old pictograph for poison. Perhaps they're carrying some poisonous cargo, and—"

"In a yatch?" Drusilla sneered. "Why can't you have a yatch?"

"My salary. I hoped to pick up enough ore in the Rings, this trip, but we had to bring you back, and—"

"You act as if it were my fault!" Drusilla squeaked.

The plates of the Box vibrated slightly as the spacecopter threw out magnetic grapplers and reeled in until the fuselages touched. The airlock of the slender plane opened to release three spacesuited figures. "Men!" Drusilla gasped. Her hands flew in instinctive twitches to red tattooed lips, blue tattooed eyelids, and green dyed hair.

Jak's pointed chin seemed to grow longer. He sighed. He shook his head and muttered, "Probably want to borrow a welding rod. I remember once in the Albert Group, a miner boarded me looking almost devitalized, and all he wanted was a can opener to—"

"Spare me the anecdotes," said Drusilla, surveying her surgically tilted nose in a small mirror. "That's all I've heard for three months."

Jak's shoulders heaved in a greater sigh. He hoped for no more trips like this one. During endless earth-days he had cruised the Cassini Division of the Rings of Saturn, picking up a little yttrium, antimony and platinum, with Drusilla sunk in depths of boredom and rarely leaving the plane. The arrival of the viewnote informing her that her Self Portrait had won first prize in the Interearth Photographic Salon had elated her for several days; but then she had announced, one earth-morning, the development of an acute case of pregnancy. Since the much published history of Lar BW16177 on Hungaria throbbed vivid in his mind, Jak could do nothing except set a course for Luna, carrying half empty ore bins and four months of unexpired leave.

A bulb on the instrument panel blinked to signal the opening of the outer airlock door. Jak said, "If I can't greet them in uniform, I'll have to go like this." He adjusted his trunks and stood by the airlock, which placed him head down in relation to Drusilla posing by the strangely silent radio.

Lar BW16177, stranded on the asteroid, had been devitalized horribly when, under low gravity, the fetus had developed with unprecedented rapidity. Jak had set the fastest course he thought safe for Drusilla, 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G acceleration, 208,000,000 kilometers in free fall, and 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G deceleration. He had tried to keep Drusilla occupied with her photographic hobby and its current triumph, although he could not understand why her picture had won first prize. It had no color, being done in blacks, grays, and whites, and showed every detail of her face. It looked about like something Daguerre would have done in 1839. Jak much preferred modern photography with its soft colors, pleasing blurs, and striking abstractions. His own hobby was woodcarving, because so few things were made of wood.

The inner door of the airlock opened. The three men in space-suits walked across the ceiling and down the bulkhead to the deck. Jak saluted the faces almost invisible behind colored glass and made gestures asking the visitors to remove their helmets. One of the men turned and clanked off along the narrow passage. Another unsealed and removed the helmet of the tall man who seemed to be the leader.

Drusilla actually blushed and giggled. Jak, who considered himself above petty embarrassment, felt rather ashamed himself, for the visitor had never had his facial hair removed. It grew profusely in a disgusting fringe between nose and upper lip and formed a horrid black triangle on the point of his chin. Jak rubbed a shaking hand over his own smooth cheeks and shaven head and stammered, "Welcome to the—the Box. How's your hobby? I—I am Jak SP345O926O, and this is Drusilla GW414249834. How may we help?"

The man with the hairy lip paid little attention to the traditional greeting, nor did he reply. His black eyes smoldered at Drusilla. In a vibrant voice, he purred, "Drusilla, Latin, meaning 'with dewy eyes.' How appropriate! What a rare and sweet old name! I detest these ugly modern names."

The eyes flashed to Jak. "I presume your name is a horrid modern one?"

Jak, maddened with indignation, snapped, "I told you I'm Jak SP345O926O. Who are you, and how may we help? In about an hour and a half—"

"Silence!" shouted the visitor.

This brutal direction shocked Jak into acquiescence. An even greater shock stunned him when the other man who had remained in the cabin removed his helmet. This one, Jak decided, must be mentally deficient, or else he would have had a plastidoc treat the red scar tissue covering the left side of his face. Jak could not understand the semicircle of black cloth over the man's left eye.

The leader bent his torso toward Drusilla as much as the spacesuit allowed, and said, "My true name and serial number, you shall never know, fair lady; but for practical purposes, I have adopted the name of the most famous pirate of the early Twentieth Century, Earl Flim. You may call me Captain Flim."

The third man came back through the passage. He looked ordinary enough, although he had let his hair grow. He reported, "No one else aboard, captain."

Flim said, "Excellent, Ger. Destroy all communication apparatus."

Ger pulled a wrench from his tool kit and took a preliminary slash at the radio. Completely puzzled, Jak protested, "Wait! What do you mean 'pirate?' Pirate? What—"

"Silence!" Flim roared.

Only then did Jak notice the pistol. Since the successful conclusion of the Crime War, when Organized Crime, the greatest blight that ever sapped a planet, was eradicated, guns could be found only in museums. Even before the War, guns had become a rarity among the law abiding citizenry; since the slaughter of fifteen thousand people a year in hunting and home accidents in the State of America alone had brought about anti-firearm laws and sent the gun the way of the private automobile.

Of course, the small criminal divisions of the Earth Patrol and the Space Patrol still carried pistols, although more as ornaments than weapons. The pistol in the clip holster on Flim's right leg seemed to be the standard Patrol arm—not a "needle gun," or a "disintegrater," or a "heat ray," or any other impractical dream weapon, but a Morgia, 30-shot, 6 mm, semi-automatic pistol with adjustable optical sight. The Morgia alarmed Jak sufficiently to prevent him from interfering as Ger tore into the radio with wrench and pliers.

Drusilla squeaked and drifted aside. "There, there, fair lady," Flim crooned. "No harm shall come to you."

"Watch what you call her!" Jak rasped. "I demand to know what you're doing! There's no time for your hobby. Drusilla needs obstetric attention, and I'm—"

"Silence!" Flim turned to Drusilla. "Ah, fair one, you shall have every attention, obstetric and otherwise. Fear not. Such gorgeous green hair! Those lips! Do I detect the master touch of Per BT1414?"

Drusilla managed to subdue her blushing and said, "Yes. He did my eyelids too. Do you like them?"

"Blue as the skies of Earth!" Flim's gaze dropped. "However, in that robe, I cannot tell—"

"What—" Jak tried to shout in mounting disgust at this performance.

"Stupid!" Drusilla spat. "Can't you see what Captain Flim is? Don't you remember that tridie we saw on Mars about Jean Lafitte? Daun TA1924 was Jean, and he rode his Model T-Ford into New Orleans to help Olehickory Jackson. He was a pirate, and that's what Captain Flim is."

Flim murmured, "True, fair lady. I follow a great tradition! Jean Lafitte, Robert Kidd, Mary Ree, Henry Morgan, and Long John Ag! The old Brotherhood of the Coast shall become the brotherhood of the space between worlds ripe for plunder. Among the cosmic motes—"

"You need a psycodoc," Jak said, proud to create an interruption himself for once. "How can you be a pirate? No one is. The Space Patrol would put you in Corrective School for twenty semesters if you were. That's a worse negative action than falsehood in advertising!"

"I am a pirate," Flim said in defiance of Jak's logic. "The Space Patrol! Avast! The Space Patrol is fit for nothing but rescue and exploration. No pirates? What of the Crime War? The noble cause of Organized Crime put planes into the void. They sent one of the first to Luna in the old days."

Jak could see no other course but to believe the man, whose brain had obviously deteriorated. He said, "Check. You're a pirate. Why? Why is he wrecking my equipment, and why are you armed?"

"Because there is nothing exciting!" Flim declaimed. "The whole Solar System is humble drum. I would have ridden the star-plane to new adventure, but they refused me. On Earth, they made me a microcataloger maintainer. Me! Its sole benefit was to acquaint me with the great piratical traditions of the past by revealing records available only to qualified scholars. No, there is nothing both legitimate and exciting to do any more."

Jak said, "Why don't you find a quick cure for dementia praecox? That hasn't been done."

"I dislike your tone," Flim rasped. "Looge! Silence him!"

The scarred man, who had stood without moving, blinked his visible eye and grunted, "Yer, uh, what?"

"Silence him!"

"Oh. Er, how?"

"Knock him down!" Flim cried. "Beat him! Use your fists!"

Drusilla giggled. "Now we'll see if you're brave as you always tell me, Jak."

Jak gaped at her in amazement. "Drusilla," he wheezed. "Are you turning against me completely? After all—our child! I know you're attracted to this man. All women are attracted by anything vulgar, but—"

Drusilla placed one hand on her hip and fluffed her hair with the other. "All you've ever done for me is give me three boring months in the Rings," she said.

Jak stood with open mouth, and Looge squeezed past Flim. Grasping his right wrist with his left hand, Looge drew back his arm. "No, no," Flim said. "Use one hand at a time!"

Looge mumbled and cocked his right arm. With no gravity, the force of this movement yanked his magnetized boots from the deck and sent him sprawling across the astrogator's couch.

Flim stroked the loathsome triangle of hair on his chin and sighed, "How decadent we are these days! He does not even understand brutality."

"Bring over the rest of your crew," Jak said. "They may."

With nauseous pride, Flim bellowed, "This is my crew! We three against the void! Ger, find a plank!"

Ger turned holding a mess of loosened wiring in his hand and asked, "A what?"

"A plank."

Drusilla said, "I know what you mean. Jak has one in quarters. He does woodcarving. Of all the silly hobbies—"

"Don't be so helpful," Jak told Drusilla. "Leave that plank alone. It's the only piece of red cedar this side of Oak Ridge."

"You shall walk it," Flim predicted. "It is one of the most famous piratical traditions. In shark infested waters, a plank was extended over the side of the ship and all male prisoners were required to walk out it until they fell to their—death."

Jak shuddered at the pirate's calm use of the ugly archaic word. Flim inclined his head to Drusilla. "You, of course, fair lady, will be spared so awful a fate. When this creature, who, I perceive, has used you most cruelly, is no more, we shall see the stars together."

Drusilla simpered and tittered. Jak belched (the ultimate expression of disgust) for he had never seen a woman behave in such an abnormal manner. He resolved to discuss the matter with the Eugenics Counselor as soon as he reached Earth, if he did. Flim's intention to devitalize him seemed but an impossible threat since Jak had never seen anyone go through the strange process nor reviewed any remains afterward. He said, "I can't walk a plank in space. I would just drift back to the plane, unless you made a sudden change in velocity. Besides, I can last for weeks with the purifier in my suit."

"Who mentioned a spacesuit?" Flim sneered.

"Without it I couldn't walk at all."

Flim frowned ferociously. "True. Too true. Avast, how I wanted to see you walk the plank. We could take you to Earth and land on a Pacific island."

"That would take too long," Jak objected. "Let me speak for a minute." Jak placed a hand over his heart. "Captain Flim, my indoctrination makes your methods repellant, but, in my unconscious, I've a certain admiration for you. There may be some of the old romance in me. I know a way of—uh—of devitalization that you may not. I've always wished that when my time came to—uh—go, this way would be used. It's even more romantic than Walk the Plank. It's called the Firing Squad."

"The Firing Squad," Flim mused. "Never mind, Ger. Return the plank." Ger, carrying a one meter length of red cedar, shrugged and drifted back to the passage. Flim stroked the mess on his upper lip and said, "Interesting. How does the Firing Squad operate? Do I soak you in alcohol and ignite it?"

"No!" Jak gasped quickly. "The Firing Squad was men with weapons. Rifles, I think. The person to be treated stood before a wall and performed a rite called Smoking the Cigarette, whatever that was. Then an officer gave commands, and the person was perforated by the riffles or rifles."

"What a manner to death!" exclaimed Flim.

Exhibiting great self-control, Jak did not wince at the word, although Drusilla giggled. Flim inexpertly dragged the 6 mm Morgia from the clip holster and smirked at it. He said, "We have but the single weapon, although I will have Ger and Looge stand by to simulate a complete group. I have wanted to test this pistol ever since Ger pockpicked a Patrolman in Mars Base. It is but an advanced model of the flintlock used by noble pirates of old."

"Let me show you," Jak said. His fingers barely touched the knob of the optical sight before Flim slapped them away.

"I am expert in these matters," the pirate affirmed. His gauntleted hands fumbled until he succeeded in pulling back the slide and letting it snap forward. "A wonderful modern improvement!" he exclaimed. "Henry Morgan loaded his from the other end of the barrel."

Drusilla made an unseemly noise with her mouth. "I never thought you were brave, Jak," she jeered. "Why didn't the big hero take that away from the Captain?"

"How did I know he didn't have a shell in the chamber? I didn't want you to be hurt—"

"Silence!" commanded the pirate. "Male prisoner, prepare to be perforated. Which wall shall we use?"

"Outside. I wouldn't want Drusilla to see—"

"Yes, outside. We shall spare the fair lady any unpleasantness. Don your armor, male prisoner."

"What?"

Flim said, "Your spacesuit." He bowed to Drusilla. "Soon, I shall return to claim you, fair lady. Together, we shall approach the speed of light."

Drusilla began to pant. Jak pulled his spacesuit from the rack and squirmed into it. "Aren't you going to tell me seelata?" he asked.

"Seelata, Jak," Drusilla said absently, her eyes on Flim.

Several words, the meaning of which Jak did not know, seeped from his unconscious mind. As they became vocal, Flim glanced at him with an expression—indicative of faint admiration. The pirate said, "Avast, it is the custom. All male prisoners must be deathed unless they join the jolly crew. You wish to join?"

Clutching his helmet to his aluminum breast, Jak thrust out his wedge of chin and cried, "Never! I regret having one vitality to give for my planet!"

"I salute you," said Flim, and clamped on his helmet. Ger and Looge did likewise; and Jak, with a despairing glance at the entranced Drusilla, sealed his own. Flim adjusted Jak's tuning dial and said, "Hear me?"

"Yes."

"Men! Follow the prisoner. Forward!"

They stepped out on the dark side of the Box, a right quadrangular prism of dull metal. A tube ran through the long axis of the craft with a swivel-mounted Carver Atomicket located at the center of gravity and steering jets slightly forward. By turning the Atomicket, acceleration or deceleration could result without the necessity for rotating the entire plane.

Their suits glowing with luminous paint, the four men stood for a moment beneath the starry spectacle. Jupiter, the largest celestial object in sight, appeared as a small belted moon to left. Flim placed the muzzle of the Morgia against the face of Jak's helmet.

"That's not correct!" Jak protested.

Flim lowered the pistol slightly. He said, "Are you certain all this is not a trick? I suspected something below."

Jak's heart shuddered. He wondered what would happen to Drusilla. This mental case would never take her to Earth, the only place she would have a chance. She should have realized her own peril instead of ogling the pirate. He pleaded, "No. No trick."

Flim stated, "I am prepared to death you at any instant. Be careful. How do you wish it arranged?"

"Stand at the tail, side by side, and I'll stand at the nose. That's forty meters apart. A good distance for the Firing Squad."

Jak took two jerky steps which brought him into position over the control cabin.

Jak said, "One last request. Shoot me through the faceplate. I'll devitalize instantly whether you hit the brain or not."

Flim's voice crackled through the radio. "Out of respect for the fair lady below, I shall avoid brutality and accommodate you. However, I am placing Ger and Looge behind me. I still feel this may be a trick."

"That's not right. All three—"

"Behind me," Flim insisted. "What were the commands?"

Jak croaked, "Load, aim, fire."

"I'm already loaded. Aim!"

Flim extended his right arm at full length. Jak licked the dry inner surfaces of his mouth with a drier tongue.

"Fire!"

Sparks spurted from the muzzle of the Morgia. Flim, his magnetic boots ripped from the plates by the recoil, crashed into Ger and Looge. A tangle of spacesuited legs and arms accelerated back along the course of the Box to become a luminous spot in the blackness.

Yanking a pair of snippers from his tool kit, Jak trudged along the edge of the Box and cut the cables of the grapplers. He clutched the low hand rail and shoved the curvilinear side of the spacecopter. For a moment, he watched as the space between the weightless vessels widened. He dropped into the airlock.

Drusilla reclined on the astrogator's couch. She had exchanged her concealing red robe for a suit of skintight translucent cover-alls. "Back so soon, captain?" she mewed. "Did he put up a last heroic struggle, or did he devitalize like the coward he was?"

Jak said, "He didn't have to be heroic. He used his brains."

Drusilla looked up. Her face blanched even under the Deepurple she had sprayed on. "Jak!" she squeaked.

Jak hung his helmet on the rack, swept some of the broken tubes and severed wires from the control board, placed them in a jagged ball in midair, and savagely canceled the flight plan. He activated the calculator. In a voice like nothing he had heard issue from his own throat, he said, "Your Captain Flim didn't know any more about a pistol than the average citizen. At sea level on Earth, the 6 mm Morgia bullet has a muzzle velocity of 1253 meters per second; and, at a range of, say, 300 meters, the bullet rises 10.5 centimeters above the line of sight at the top of the curve it traces. Out here, with no gravity or air pressure, the bullet travels in a perfectly straight line. I ran Flim's sight all the way up, and when he tried to hit my head as I asked him, he missed me a mile—whatever that means. On Earth, he would have hit regardless of the sights. He had only one shot, because the cold of the dark side contracted the slide; and the recoil, terrific without gravity, sent him and his crew flying."

Jak left the clicking calculator and stared at the motionless Drusilla. "Don't worry about your sweetjet," he rasped. "He'll drift back to his copter. We're changing course for the Patrol station on Callisto to report and have them picked up. I hope the centrifugal force and deceleration is enough to smear you!"

"But, Jak," Drusilla moaned, "you know—"

"Don't start that again!" Jak roared. "You told me a—a dis-truth! What an act! You ought to be in tridies. At two months, Lar BW16177 on Hungaria looked like—You wanted to go to Earth because of that prize in the Photographic Salon! You wanted to taste your fame. What are you trying to do, ruin me? You don't need the Wollongong Obstetric Hospital any more than I do! I'm going back to the Rings, and you can sit on Callisto till you—yes, till you death yourself!"

"Jak," Drusilla murmured. "I never knew you could be so domineering, so," she giggled the naughty word, "masculine."

"Silence!" Jak bellowed. He darted down the passage to quarters and spurted back carrying a gray uniform soaked with tomato juice. He snarled, "I told you to clean this! Now do it!"

The silver crescent and rocket emblem of the Space Patrol still glittered through the stain. Beneath that crest appeared Jak's serial number, SP34509260.

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