Public-domain ebook
Meteor-Men of Mars
by Cord, Harry; Kline, Otis Adelbert
Language: en354 downloads on Project Gutenberg
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In: Science-Fiction & Fantasy·Adventure
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #62258.
The opening · free to read
By Harry Cord and Otis Adelbert Kline
Like tiny meteors, the space-ships plunged into Earth's atmosphere, carrying death for all who opposed their flight. The fate of a world rested in Hammond's hands--and his wrists were fettered at his sides.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It came out of the dawn sky, slanting like a fiery meteor out of the east. The two men in the skiff saw the glowing streak in the sky and heard the sound of its passage, like the loosing of a nest of angry snakes overhead, a scant second before it plummeted into the calm waters of the Sound.
A geyser of water and steam shot up not a hundred yards from the maroon and gold skiff. The boat rocked and pitched to the disturbance.
Frank Hammond, seated at the bow, clamped a taped hand over the side to hold himself, surprise quickening the intentness of his dark, handsome face. He was a lithe, bronzed figure, clad only in blue trunks and rope sandals. Stroking for his college crew in years that were warm memories had padded naturally wide shoulders.
"What the devil?" he ejaculated. "Did you see that, Pete?"
Peter Storm grinned. Two inches under his companion's six foot length, he weighed ten pounds more--a heavily muscled figure who could move with deceptive speed as many an opposing eleven had found out in his college football days. Blond, phlegmatic of nature, he took things easier than his more restless friend.
"Meteor, you dummox!" he jibed, good-naturedly. "Ever hear of one before?"
Hammond stared at the spot where the agitation was quieting. "I heard of them," he said shortly. "But this is the first time one ever fell this close to me."
Storm shrugged. "Forget it. This is our last day before going back to the grind. Let's make the most of it. Remember that bet we--Boy!" He broke off, standing up to haul in.
His catch proved to be a bluefish, a three pounder. He unhooked it, disgustedly, while Frank, measuring it with a quick glance, gave him a Bronx cheer. "If you can't do better than that that new hat's in the bag," he jeered.
They went back to their heaving and hauling, bantering good naturedly over every catch, completely forgetting the strange visitor from the skies.
Both were research chemists for the New York Analytical Laboratories; both were unmarried. They had been inseparable comrades since their college days, when both wore identical crew cuts, dressed alike, and always either double-dated or stagged it. In memory of those days their skiff, the Crawfish, had been painted maroon inside and a golden yellow outside, maroon and gold having been their school colors.
Their vacation camp was on Ramson's Island, just off Ramson's point on the Connecticut shore. The rocky island was uninhabited. They had left camp early, intent on making the most of their last day. Reaching the fishing "hole" they had anchored. Both men taped their hands, and each prepared his jig, a long bar of lead to which a hook was attached, and began the process of "heaving and hauling" used in the vicinity for luring bluefish.
They had been at it for about an hour when the "meteor" landed.
Fifteen minutes later they had forgotten it.
The sun was a huge red ball balanced on the rim of the sea when Frank suddenly felt a jerk on his line that nearly wrenched his arm from its socket. He said nothing. His lips merely tightened, eagerly, as he wished to surprise his companion by hauling in the big one unexpectedly.
But this proved harder than he thought.
His potential catch darted off with such a burst of speed and strength that it dragged boat, anchor and all!
"Hey!" yelled Storm, clutching the boat sides to hold himself. "What's on that jig? A shark? Better cut that line before it swamps us!"
"Like heck I will!" Hammond grunted, hanging on to the line with both taped hands. "This must be the grandfather of all big blues. That new hat's in the bag!"
With both feet braced against the thwarts, he leaned back and pulled with all his strength. Bit by bit he hauled the "big one" in close, till finally he was able to lift it out of the water and into the boat.
Both men exclaimed in amazement at the thing which came over the side and clanked to the bottom of the boat. It was neither a giant bluefish nor a shark. It was a shiny, iridescent object, slightly shaped like a shark, but quiescent now, and seemingly lifeless.
"What kind of a fish do you call that?" asked Storm disgustedly, leaning forward for better view of the catch. "It looks like a cross between a shark and a toy submarine."
"Damned if it don't!" Hammond replied, staring bewilderedly at his catch.
The thing was about thirty inches in length, with both vertical and dorsal fins. But instead of one dorsal fin it was equipped with four fins placed equidistantly around the body. These fins contained numerous tubular quills or spines with round openings at the ends, and Hammond's hook had caught between two of these spines. It was as heavy as if made of steel, but despite its weight and metallic sound when struck, it appeared to be constructed entirely of a bluish, iridescent mother-of-pearl.
Hammond removed his hook from between the spines, and lifted his catch onto the empty boat seat between them.
"Better heave it overboard," advised Storm, seriously. "It might be a new-fangled type of mine or bomb. I don't like the looks--"
He stood, open-mouthed, as the "thing" suddenly shot off the boat seat with a hissing roar like that of a small rocket. It scorched the paint as it took off with small, orange-green flares emanating from the tubular quills. It shot upward with incredible speed and was almost immediately lost to view.
Storm's mouth closed slowly. "Hell!" he said, a little dazedly. "I'm afraid to start fishing again, Frank. Might catch a cross between a battleship and a whale."
"I'm hauling up anchor," Hammond countered, grimly. "I don't like the looks of this at all. The coast guard ought to hear of this."
He got one hand on the anchor rope and was starting to hoist in when the strange "catch" suddenly reappeared. It came down in a long slant, circled over the skiff a few times, and finally settled on the scorched seat from which it had taken off.
Hammond stared at the thing and swore. Peter Storm took a firm hold of his oar.
Holes suddenly appeared in the strange craft. Hammond noticed that there were no doors in evidence. The holes seemed to dilate open, like camera shutters, in the gleaming body.
From these openings a host of small creatures crawled. They swarmed out toward both ends of the boat seat.
Storm straightened, oar in hand. "Ants!" he snapped, disgustedly. He began to swing the ash blade down on the scurrying creatures.
The things continued to move about, apparently unharmed. Dents appeared in the oar and in the seat.
Hammond bent over the scurrying creatures and studied them. "No use, Pete," he muttered. "They're not ants. There's no division of head, thorax and abdomen. They're eight-legged and cephalothoracic--more like the arachnids." His startled surprise was fading under the prod of scientific curiosity. "Funny thing, Pete--the legs and shells seem to be composed of the same substance as the 'thing' they come from. Look!"
Storm dropped his oar and came forward. The boat rocked a little to his shift of weight. A faint humming came from the "thing" on the seat, catching his attention.
But Hammond, intent on one of the small creatures he was about to pick up, did not notice. Not until Pete's hoarse shout jerked him away.
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