Somewhere in the void was a planet with a new
element that could transform men into supermen.
It was Boone's job to find that world—if he survived—
The Terror Out Of Space
By Dwight V. Swain
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
July 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was a good proposition, the way the lean, grey man from AssociatedIndependents told it. He ticked off the points on his fingers:
"Ten thousand credits an Earth year, Boone, win or lose. Full commandof the field force. Five per cent cut on the profits if you get amekronal processing unit in production on one of the unassignedsatellites ahead of the Cartel."
"Sorry, Terral." Again, Boone glanced at his chronox. "It's like Isaid. Any other time I might be interested. But right now I've gotsomething else on my mind."
"Fifteen thousand, then. And ten per cent if you spot in more than onesatellite." Terral leaned forward. "Hell, man, that's more than you canhope to make as a GX if you stay with the Cartel!"
Boone grinned, after a fashion. "Sorry."
The lean man pushed back abruptly and gulped down his drink. "Then itis the woman!" he accused. A spark of pale fire lighted behind thegrey eyes. Even in the dimness of the thil-shop, Boone couldn't missthe tension. "Krobis shoves her in ahead of you, but you'd still throwaway your future—"
Boone brought his own glass down on the tanach table top, just hardenough so that it clicked a curt, sharp period to the other's sentence."And what makes that your business?"
For the moment Terral's narrow jaws seemed to widen at the hinges.His lips peeled back, as if he were about to say something raw andcutting. Then, reconsidering, he breathed in deep instead and slumpedloose in his seat. The thin lips drew together in a crooked smile. "Mybusiness—? Nothing, Boone. Nothing at all."
"That's the way I see it, too." Boone got up. "Good night, Terral."
He strode on out, not bothering to shake hands or look back.
The night closed in upon him—the night, and the narrow street; thealien sounds and smells and stir of Gandor City. A cadet from theFederation fleet pushed past him, a moss-furred Callistan crustachperched on his shoulder. Behind the cadet came two spask-masked berlonprospectors, up from the Hertzog fields, leading their lumberingflipper-tentacled coddob by a chain run through its gill-slits. Thethrob of the atmosphere compressors pressed in like a giant heartbeat,punctuated by the rattle of surface carriers, the shrill wail of tricolpipes. A sweetish, slightly nauseous scent of thes-wood flares andMartian paggod eddied from the doorway of a greasy-looking grill thatplacarded "Genuine Earth Meats—No Synthetics, No Alien Substitutes!"
Once more, Boone checked his chronox.
It was less than an hour till the end of the cycle now.
In spite of himself, Boone's belly tightened. Turning at the firstintersection, he headed for the carrier station.
The IC flight was already on the line and waiting. He found a seatnext to a dour-faced tech whose eye-whites showed green with mekronalinfusion.
The carrier wheeled slowly forward into the lock that sealed off GandorCity's precious, bubble-pressured air supply from the bleak worldoutside. A moment later the lock's outer hatch opened. Climbing on itsanti-gravitational beam—slowly, at first; then faster and fast