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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
The Two Moons of Tranquillia by Arthur Leo Zagat transports readers to an exotic world under the glow of two moons, where danger and mystery intertwine. On the distant planet of Tranquillia, an Earth expedition encounters a civilization steeped in ancient traditions and guarded secrets. As the explorers dig deeper into Tranquillia's enigmatic culture, they uncover a web of intrigue that could alter the destiny of both worlds. With two moons casting eerie shadows over their every move, the team must navigate treacherous landscapes and decipher cryptic prophecies to unlock the truth. Will they survive the perils of Tranquillia, or will its secrets remain buried under the light of the twin moons?
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Seitenzahl: 87
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The Two Moons of Tranquillia
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Two Moons of Tranquillia
The charming old couple said they loved children, yet nobody would ever again see in this world the children they adopted.
CHAPTER I
GEORGE CARSON—Lieutenant George Carson, U.S.N., now—came in through the door on which is lettered the meaningless title, "Editorial Consultant," they gave me when they put me on the shelf.
"What the devil are you doing here?" I growled as he closed it and strode toward me. "I thought you were somewhere in the Atlantic, chasing U-boats."
"I was, Pop." He slung a long, blue-clothed leg over a corner of my desk, grinned down at me. "I'll be shoving off again by midnight." He looked ten years younger than when I'd last seen him. Wind and the sun had bronzed him, hooded his gaze with an eagle's drooped lids and the one or two threads of gray in his black hair served only to give him a certain solidity. "A bit of luck gave me the chance to wangle the first shore leave I've had in five months."
It might be luck, but with the word pain had come into his gray eyes and a slow smoulder of anger.
"Picked up a drifting ship's boat," he explained, "with some poor sons aboard more dead than alive."
"Jerry's got another one, has he?" I grabbed for my 'phone. "What—City Desk, Jen—What was it? Where—? Oh, okay." His face had gone blank. "Okay, George, I forgot. Quote. No information shall be published unless and until released by the Commandant, Third Naval District. Unquote. So the radio can spill it first," I added bitterly, "and make our headlines look like the March of Time a year behind the band. Now in 'eighteen—You wouldn't remember, you were in the Navy then too, but back in 'eighteen we—"
"Had to fight your way into the building through the crowds waiting for extras. Or was that the fracas in 'ninety-eight?"
"If you're hinting, you young whippersnapper, that I'm old enough to—What in blazes are you wasting time here for, any way? Why aren't you on your way up to Westchester to see your son?"
"No train till one-seven, which gives me about forty-five minutes—Listen, Pop. Something's come up that you—I wonder if you could help me out."
Fishing in a pocket of his uniform he looked and sounded exactly like the shy but earnest cub who when I was in the slot, in the twenties, used to come to me with a thousand eager questions.
"I picked up a copy of the Globe this morning, the first I've seen since Christmas, and—You know I always read the Agony Column first, don't you?"
"I ought to, seeing it was I tipped you that the personal ads are a good spot to find hints for off-trail items."
"This hit me in the eye." George put a torn-out clipping in front of me and added, an odd note of significance in his tone. "In today's sheet."
IT WAS four lines of six point type, the first line light-face caps and small caps:
COUPLE WILL CARE FOR THE DURATION
without charge child of widower who wishes to
volunteer for military service. Country Home.
'Phone Carseville-465.
I looked up. "This would have struck you just right five months ago, but—"
"It did. I answered that same ad five months ago, and parked Pete with the Old couple who'd inserted it." I'd been on vacation, I recalled. He'd been gone when I returned. "That's how I was able to get back into uniform without worrying about the brat."
"So someone else got the idea, so what? It's good, isn't it?"
"I said the same ad, Pop." He spoke quietly, but obviously he was disturbed. "Exactly the same, even to the 'phone number. I checked in my address book. It's the same people."
"Okay. Your Peter worked out well and they've decided to take in another kid."
"There isn't room for another. The Barrets live in a small bungalow and the one guest-room is tiny—"
"Two boys might share it, if they got one of these two-story beds you see advertised."
"Ye-e-es." He tautened again. "They don't specify a boy, Pop. Look here. See. They say child. Pete's twelve and—All right. Maybe I'm nuts but I've got a nagging sort of hunch. What I came down here for was to find out if that ad's appeared any other time since the lad's been up there."
"What would that prove?"
"Well..." I picked up the 'phone, told Jen to get me the Morgue, told Ed Brolles what I wanted. "Now suppose we get sensible, George," I suggested. "Have you any sane reason to suspect anything's wrong with the boy?"
"No. I haven't seen him since late January but he's written me fairly regularly." His breast pocket produced a packet of pencil-smudged half-sheets. "His letters are all pretty much alike." He pulled one from under the elastic that held them together, unfolded it. "Like this; 'Dear Dad. How are you? I'm fine. I hit a three bagger Saturday. We won, sixteen to twelve, and—'" George checked, brown fingers tightening on the paper. "I'll be damned," he said softly.
"What's hit you?"
He didn't answer. He put the letter down on the desk, selected another from the opposite side of the packet, glanced through it, grunted. "I thought I remembered...Listen, Pop. That letter's six weeks old. This one came yesterday, but listen—'I hit a three bagger Saturday. We won, sixteen to twelve.' What do you make of that?"
"Coincidence."
"Think so?" George had both papers on the desk, side by side, was looking back and forth between the two, lips compressed. Grim. "Take a look at this and see if you still think it's coincidence."
I bent over, studied the sheets. "I see what you mean. The rest of the wording is different, but those two statements, just alike, are in exactly the same relative positions on the two pages."
"As if," he half-whispered. "As if one was traced from the other."
"Mmm." I couldn't be positive without superimposing them, with a strong light behind, but it certainly looked as if every character of the endearing, childish scrawl on the one sheet were identical with its corresponding character on the other. "Yesterday's letter might be a patchwork of tracings from several earlier—Wait!" I exclaimed, abruptly relieved. "We've forgotten that you had the earlier letters. You certainly didn't give them to anyone to trace."
"No. No, I didn't. But the whole batch of these might have been prepared all at once, then mailed at inter—." The 'phone bell cut him off.
My hand beat his by a fraction of a second. "The Globe ought to make a special rate for those people." Ed has one of those telephone voices you can hear across the room. "That same ad's appeared a dozen times the last—"
"Thanks, fellow. That's all I wanted to know."
CHAPTER II
GEORGE'S eyes were gray steel, black-dotted by pinpoint pupils. "If they've done anything to Pete..." He slid off the desk and started stiff-kneed toward the door.
"Wait," I barked. "You've still got twenty minutes to make that train. I want to try something."
He swung around. "What?" but I was rattling the bar for Jen. She came in on the line and I told, her, "Get me Carseville 465."
"I didn't let them know I was coming," George cautioned. "I—" His mouth twitched. "I wanted to surprise Pete."
In my ear a low, musical voice said, "Hello. Who is it, please?"
"My name's Harold Gatlin." George tugged at the receiver and I moved it so he could get his ear to it too. "I'm calling with regard to your personal in this morning's New York Globe."
"You are interested in placing a child?"
"A little girl. Have you any preference?"
The woman hesitated. Or perhaps I imagined it. At any rate, her reply was definite when it came.
"Not at all."
I saw a brown hand tighten on the desk edge, its knuckles go white.
"How old is your daughter, Mr. Gatlin?"
"About ten," I replied. "But she is not my daughter. I am her grandfather."
"Her grandfather!" I was sure, this time, that the voice at the other end of the wire had changed. "I am afraid you do not quite understand," it said coldly. "What we have in mind is to release someone for military service—"
"You'll be doing exactly that in this case." The rather nebulous impulse that had prompted me to say "grandfather" was crystallizing into a definite plan. "My daughter is a trained nurse. Her hospital unit has been ordered overseas and she will have to resign unless Kay can find a home where she can be happy."
"Surely she could be happy with you."
"Surely. But, unfortunately, I too am leaving the country. I happen to be on the staff of a—a certain magazine," I'd almost said newspaper, realized just in time this would be too clear a tie-up with George, "and have been given an assignment that will keep me abroad indefinitely."
"I see." Her tone was still tentative. "Are there no relatives, or close friends perhaps, who can take care of the little girl?"
It was evident now what she was after. "None. Helen was divorced shortly after Kay was born and—Well," I ventured an embarrassed little laugh, "it would be about the worst possible thing for the child if she were to come under the influence of her father or his family. I'm sure you understand, Mrs. ——"
"Barret," she filled in. "Mary Barret. Yes. I think I do." She paused, began again. "Would you care to bring your granddaughter up here, Mr. Gatlin?"
There it was, on a silver platter. "Precisely what I had in mind."
