DOUBLE TROUBLE-2
1205 Words
WHEN ANNABELLA C. FLOWERS, that renowned writer of science fiction, visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie, had always been mildly crazy. If you haven’t read her books, you’ve missed something. She’s the author of Lady of the Green Flames, Lady of the Runaway Planet, Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast, and other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are, however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background. Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from visiting her “stage” in person.
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter’s Eighth Moon, I knew she had another novel in the state of embryo.
What I didn’t expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated to do the illustrations for Grannie’s new book.
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the offices of Interstellar Voice. And then I was shaking hands with Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
“Glad to meet you,” he said cordially. “I’ve just been trying to persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.”
“What’s the Baldric?” I had asked.
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
“Will you believe me, sir,” he said, “when I tell you I’ve been out here on this forsaken moon five years and don’t rightly know myself?”
I scowled at that; it didn’t make sense.
“However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix. It’s no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I’m not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication. The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts’ transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases. Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding apparatus, and the rush was on.”
“What do you mean?”
Park leaned back. “The rush to find more of the ore,” he explained. “But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
“There are two companies here,” he continued, “Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that. However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
“There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has crossed the Baldric without trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, “Fiddlesticks, I never saw trouble yet that couldn’t be explained. We leave in an hour.”
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and supplies.
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And then abruptly I saw something else.
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me. Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it didn’t. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
“Look what I found,” I yelled.
“What I found,” said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
“Thunder, it talks,” I said amazed.
“Talks,” repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was sketching a likeness of the creature.
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter began to descend toward the horizon.
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had just crossed.
“Billy-boy,” she said to me in a strange voice, “look down there and tell me what you see.”
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat, another Earth man, and a Martian.
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
“A mirage!” said Ezra Karn.
But it wasn’t a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away, they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
“What do you make of it?” I said in a hushed voice.
Grannie shook her head. “Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced by some chemical radiations,” she replied. “Whatever it is, we’d better watch our step. There’s no telling what might lie ahead.”
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no repetition of the “mirage.” The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie’s attention to it.
“It’s a kite,” she nodded. “There should be a car attached to it somewhere.”
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
“This is Jimmy Baker,” she said. “He manages Larynx Incorporated, and he’s the real reason we’re here.”
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties, he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand goggles could not conceal.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here, Grannie,” he said. “If anybody can help me, you can.”
Grannie’s eyes glittered. “Trouble with the mine laborers?” she questioned.
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