War-Lords of the Moon
By LINTON DAVIES
Bruce Ross, on the Earth-Moon run, asked a
simple question, "How are the stars behaving,
Harry?" But Harrell Moore could only stare
at him in horror. For the stars had run
amok—cosmic engines of destruction in the
hands of the twisted genius of the Moon!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A faint quiver ran through the great hull of the rocket ship, andpassed. The harsh drumming of her motors died to a singing drone.Flight-Commander Bruce Ross nodded absently. The ship had shaken offthe Earth-drag, and the speed indicator climbed fast. Eleven, twelvehundred miles an hour, the flagship of the rocket-ship fleet sped onits way to the Moon.
He moved to the forward telescope at the side of the control cabin andsquinted at their objective. The pale circular bulk of the Moon loomedlarger than when he had last observed it. He twisted to look throughthe rear telescope, and saw with satisfaction that the other sevenships of his fleet were following in echelon, each a mile and somewhatto the right of the one before it.
Ross grinned with pleasure. It wasn't his first trip to the Moon, buton that earlier occasion, when Magnus, King of the Moon People, hadpledged a truce with the Earth's Council of Seven, he had commandedonly the flagship. Now he had his own flagship, larger and morepowerful than that outmoded rocket ship of five years ago, and sevenmore fighting ships besides. He strolled over to stand behind hisnavigator, plump, bespectacled Harrell Moore, who was squintingstrainedly through the star-scope.
"How are the stars behaving, Harry?"
Moore's forehead was corrugated with concern. Without taking his eyefrom the scope he muttered softly, "Something funny going on, Bruce."
He moved back to let his chief step to the eye-piece. But before theflight-commander could take the seat a sliding door opened with a bang.The two turned, startled.
In the opening swayed a white-faced clerk. "Sir," he gasped, "there'strouble with communications!"
"Well?" snapped Ross.
The clerk brushed sweat off his brow. "The ray-type machine's gonedead, sir, and the ray-phone's crippled. We get only a weak muffledvoice from the Council of Seven Headquarters!"
"How about the blinkers from the other ships?" snapped Ross.
"Blinkers are working, sir—" The clerk stopped short as Ross jumped tothe rear of the control room.
"Jorgens!" snapped Ross. "Signal each ship, and ask if they've—theycan get Seven Headquarters on the ray-type!"
"Aye, sir!" The signal chief hastened to the blinker buttons and beganto rap out the message. He was half through it when a dull boom echoedlike a sigh through the control room.
Ross and Moore exchanged startled glances. Jorgens, white of face,looked up, his hand poised as if paralyzed over the buttons. Then Rossjumped to the rear telescope, which commanded a view of his followingseven ships.
There were only six. Where the seventh—the last in thestaggered-line—should have been, a faint glow filled the air. Rossstared at it, heart-sick. Was that blow the last sign of his rearguard? A rocket ship blotted out—destroyed! But how? How?
"Jorgens!" he snapped. "You had the Moon on the ray-type a while ago!Try to get that Peak One station again!"
"Aye, sir," breathed Jorgens shakily. He tapped the black key,rat