Tongues of the Moon E-Book

Philip José Farmer

• Herausgeber: Alien Ebooks
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 51

Beschreibung

In a gripping tale set on the Moon, American and Soviet forces clash after a devastating war on Earth. Colonel Scone, a tough American Nationalist, hatches a daring plan to seize control of the Zemlya, a mighty interstellar ship, and declare independence from Russian rule. Broward, an Athenian with a mysterious past, becomes Scone's unlikely ally as they fight to capture the vessel that holds the key to humanity's future. Faced with tense standoffs, surprise attacks, and hard choices, Scone and his outnumbered rebels must risk everything in a battle that will decide the fate of the last humans in the universe.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TONGUES OF THE MOON, by Philip Jose Farmer

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Originally published in Amazing Stories, September 1961.

Published by Black Cat Weekly.

blackcatweekly.com

TONGUES OF THE MOON,by Philip Jose Farmer

Fireflies on the dark meadow of Earth….

The men and women looking up through the dome in the center of the crater of Eratosthenes were too stunned to cry out, and some did not understand all at once the meaning of those pinpoints on the shadowy face of the new Earth, the lights blossoming outwards, then dying. So bright they could be seen through the cloudmasses covering a large part of Europe. So bright they could be located as London, Paris, Brussels, Copenhagen, Leningrad, Rome, Reykjavik, Athens, Cairo….

Then, a flare near Moscow that spread out and out and out….

Some in the dome recovered more quickly than others. Scone and Broward, two of the Soviet North American officers present at the reception in honor of the South Atlantic Axis officers, acted swiftly enough to defend themselves.

Even as the Axes took off their caps and pulled small automatics and flat bombs from clips within the caps, the two Americans reached for the guns in their holsters.

Too late to do them much good if the Argentineans and South Africans nearest them had aimed at them. The Axes had no shock on their faces; they must have known what to expect. And their weapons were firing before the fastest of the Soviets could reach for the butts of their guns.

But the Axes must have had orders to kill the highest ranking Soviets first. At these the first fire was concentrated.

Marshal Kosselevsky had half-turned to his guest, Marshal Ramírez-Armstrong. His mouth was open and working, but no words came from it. Then, his eyes opened even wider as he saw the stubby gun in the Argentinean’s hand. His own hand rose in a defensive, wholly futile, gesture.

Ramírez-Armstrong’s gun twanged three times. Other Axes’ bullets also struck the Russian. Kosselevsky clutched at his paunch, and he fell face forward. The .22 calibers did not have much energy or penetrate deeply into the flesh. But they exploded on impact; they did their work well enough.

Scone and Broward took advantage of not being immediate targets. Guns in hand, they dived for the protection of a man-tall bank of instruments. Bullets struck the metal cases and exploded, for, in a few seconds, the Axes had accomplished their primary mission and were now out to complete their secondary.

Broward felt a sting on his cheek as he rolled behind the bank. He put his hand on his cheek, and, when he took it away, he saw his hand covered with blood. But his probing finger felt only a shallow of flesh. He forgot about the wound. Even if it had been more serious, he would have had no time to take care of it.

A South African stepped around the corner of the bank, firing as he came.

Broward shot twice with his .45. The dark-brown face showered into red and lost its human shape. The body to which it was now loosely attached curved backwards and fell on the floor.

* * * *

“Broward!” called Scone above the twang and boom of the guns and the wharoop! of a bomb. “Can you see anything? I can’t even stick my head around the corner without being shot at.”

Broward looked at Scone, who was crouched at the other end of the bank. Scone’s back was to Broward, but Scone’s head was twisted far enough for him to see Broward out of the corner of his eye.

Even at that moment, when Broward’s thoughts should have excluded everything but the fight, he could not help comparing Scone’s profile to a face cut out of rock. The high bulbous forehead, thick bars of bone over the eyes, Dantesque nose, thin lips, and chin jutting out like a shelf of granite, more like a natural formation which happened to resemble a chin than anything which had taken shape in a human womb.

Ugly, massive, but strong. Nothing of panic or fear in that face; it was as steady as his voice.

Old Gibraltar-face, thought Broward for perhaps the hundredth time. But this time he did not feel dislike.

“I can’t see any more than you—Colonel,” he said.

Scone, still squatting, shifted around until he could bring one eye to bear fully on Broward. It was a pale blue, so pale it looked empty, unhuman.

“Colonel?”

“Now,” said Broward. “A bomb got General Mansfield and Colonels Omato and Ingrass. That gives you a fast promotion, sir.”

“We’ll both be promoted above this bank if an Axe lobs a bomb over,” said Scone. “We have to get out of here.”

“To where?”

Scone frowned—granite wrinkling—and said, “It’s obvious the Axes want to do more than murder a few Soviets. They must plan on getting control of the bonephones. I know I would if I were they. If they can capture the control center, every Soviet on the Moon—except for the Chinese—is at their mercy. So….”

“We make a run for the BR?”

“I’m not ordering you to come with me,” said Scone. “That’s almost suicide. But you will give me a covering fire.”

“I’ll go with you, Colonel.”

Scone glanced at the caduceuses on Broward’s lapels, and he said, “We’ll need your professional help after we clean out the Axes. No.”

“You need my amateurish help now,” said Broward. “As you see”—he jerked his thumb at the nearly headless Zulu—“I can handle a gun. And if we don’t get to the bonephone controls first, life won’t be worth living. Besides, I don’t think the Axes intend taking any prisoners.”

“You’re right,” said Scone. But he seemed hesitant.

“You’re wondering why I’m falling in so quickly with your plan to wreck the control center?” said Broward. “You think I’m a Russky agent?”

“I didn’t say I intended to wreck the transmitters,” said Scone. “No. I know what you are. Or, I think I do. You’re not a Russky. You’re a….”

Scone stopped. Like Broward, he felt the rock floor quiver, then start shaking. And a low rumbling reached them, coming up through their feet before their ears detected it.