Juggernaut of Space
Ray Cummings
Never had the mind of man conceived so horrible a
doom as was reaching for Earth. Never had a greater
need for Earth's valiant champions been needed.
And yet the only ones who could fight the menace—were
five futile humans, prisoners on another world.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
My name is Robert Rance. You've heard of me, of course—through therecent weird affair of the Crimson Comet, if for nothing else. It seemsto me rather ironic: for five years I have been reporting popularscience items on the split-wave band of non-visual broadcasting.Station WANA-NYC—the main outlet of Amalgamated Newscasters'Association, for whom I work. I struggled for personal publicity.Then I was plunged—certainly entirely against my will—into theblood-chilling, gruesome adventure which is now popularly known as "TheDeath of the Crimson Comet." Out of it has come publicity beyond mywildest dreams. And now that I've got it, I don't want it. I'm not ahero, of dauntless, fearless courage. I'm not a scientific genius, whohas made possible to Earth the New Era of Interplanetary Travel. ButI've been called all that by broadcasting asses who are my friends.
I'm just a plain American, who, when his life is in danger getsfrightened as the devil, fighting to get himself out of a jam, and withnot much thought of anything else. I didn't relish that Crimson Cometbusiness, and I don't want ever to experience anything like it again.I'm not alone in this. There were four others in it with me. They don'tlike all this public fuss being made over them any more than I do. Theyweren't heroic. They just tried their best not to get killed. So ontheir behalf, and my own, I'm writing this narrative of exactly whathappened to us. Not the professionally glamorized version which you'veheard so many times. Just the facts.
The thing must have been brewing, under cover, for many months. Like asmouldering, unnoticed fire. No one knows; we can only guess at whathappened. But looking back on it now, there were incidents, seeminglyunrelated at the time, which now I can see were significant. The firstof them was in August, 1985—about a year ago. I had just finished abroadcast on some trivial, popular science subject, which I had triedto make sound important to my listeners. And Dr. Johns of the WhiteMountains Observatory telephoned me. I knew him quite well; he hadoften steered me into little subjects for my broadcasts, but this, Icould see at once, was something different The tel-grid showed histhin face without its usual smile. His grey hair was rumpled; his eyesbloodshot. He looked as though he hadn't slept for much too long.
"I thought you might want to come up and see me, Bob," he suggested.
"Sure I will. I always appreciate your tips, Dr. Johns."
His smile was queer. "I haven't got anything—not that you can use,"he said. "Certainly not yet. I guess I just figure I'll feel better,talking about it. When can you arrive?"
"I'll come right away," I told him. "Not busy tonight. I'll be there bymidnight."
We disconnected. I was just about to leave when Shorty Dirk walkedin on me. Shorty was—and still is—connected with the AmericanNewsprint Publishers—a reporter in the Crime Division, specializingin reporting the work of the Bureau of Missing Persons. He and I weregood friends, perhaps because we are so different. I'm big