Design For Doomsday
By Bryce Walton
Slogging through Venus' reeking muck and groping
horrors toward the forbidding dome of Solar
Science City—treasure-vault of the best brains
in the System—Guardsman Venard remembered the
frightened whispers: "An evil god rules there!"
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The tone of the slurred, emotionless voice was cold and deadly, as werethe tones of all Martians who had taken to their grotesque hearts themystic, dictatorial disease of Zharkonism. It droned an implacabledeath song from the audio. It echoed horribly down the shadow-eatenlabyrinth of that sprawling death-mart which was officially labeledTerro Concentration Camp Seven.
... Another exalted warrior of the Occupational Armies of Zharkon,the Undying—Zharkon, the ever-just and divine director of the SolarSystem—Zharkon, the voice of the Gods—has been brutally slain byterran underground subversives. In retaliation, five hundred Terraninferiors will go to the experimental wards by decree of our divineMartian Zharkon—Zharkon, our illustrious solar father ...
The audio droned on. But none of the tier on tier of doomed menimprisoned in the rehabilitated ruins of Washington's subterraneanlevels listened any more. They were ragged, skeletal shapes crouchedlike frightened animals in the filthy shadows. Feverishly bright eyesstared with a fanatic's hunger for death, the release from hopeless,mind-shattering pain and indignity. Those who would not wilfully signaway their futures to colonial slavery under the Martian dictatorshipwere killed in devious and ghastly ways. The death toll was high.
In each of the little prison cubicles two figures waited, helplessbehind cold metal. It would seem impossible to find even one face whichdid not wear the terrible scar of resignation which marks the souls ofthe hopeless. Yet in one of these prison cubicles there were two such.Two Terran Guardsmen.
The great Terran Guards, what few remained of the once colorful andrenowned Solar Patrol, semantically-trained, objective yet warmlyhuman, knew there was no resignation. That was death if carried to itsobvious conclusion. While one lived, one moved, acted, and was actedupon. While one lived there was conflict, and there was always hope.
Although perhaps only the few remnants of the Guards and the smallUnderground which flourished dangerously somewhere in the ruins ofthe Earth retained this pre-Solar War attitude. Perhaps this stubbornminority totaled one percent. Perhaps. No one knew.
The tall, gaunt figure gripped the prison bars in two big hands. KarlVenard, Ex-Lieutenant, strained hawk-like features outward, his thinlips twisted. He turned suddenly to snarl, "This is it, Louie. We'rethe only two Guardsmen left in this sad hole. We'll be among thisdraft. Start praying."
Louie Larson, the little man who still, somehow, managed to beoverweight in spite of being half-starved, shivered.
"The least you can do is die like a man," snarled Venard. "You're adisgrace to the Guards."
The fat little man grabbed Venard's ragged sleeves.
"Remember what the grapevine said last night, Karl? It said that theUnderground on Mars had managed to blow up the Zharkon's throne roomand him in it. It said the Zharkon had been injured, maybe killed, thathis double-brain was on the blink. Maybe