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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Valley of Pretenders
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Seitenzahl: 40
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Table of Contents
VALLEY OF PRETENDERS, by John Russell Fearn
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
VALLEY OF PRETENDERS,by John Russell Fearn
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1939 by John Russell Fearn.
First published in Science Fiction, March 1939, under the pseudonym Dennis Clive.
Reprinted with the permission of the Cosmos Literary Agency.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
CHAPTER 1
“Hell, that’s darned funny!” Mart Latham sat up in his comfortably sprung seat and stared in surprise through the huge window. “Look, we’re turning towards Rhea… Rhea of all places!” he whistled blankly.
He was not the only one who had noticed the fact. A general chatter of surprised conversation rose from the passengers in the immense, comfortable lounge. Faces angled towards windows in complete amazement.
“Nothing to worry about, folks. Just keep your seats, please.”
A trim, white-coated steward of the giant Earth-Europa space liner suddenly appeared at the main door. He was smiling apologetically.
“We’ve developed a jet fault,” he explained. “It’s too risky to attempt the complete run to Earth without having it fixed—so we’re making a temporary landing on Rhea. We’ll be there about four hours—”
He was cut short by a chorus of protest. Some had appointments, some had wives, some hoped to have wives, others were darn glad they hadn’t—and so forth. The steward met the onslaught with his best “customer is always right” smile.
“I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but the Interplanetary Corporation reserves the right to land in an emergency ….Thank you.” He departed as silently as he had come.
Mart Latham looked disgustedly out the window again.
“Well, what do you know about that?” he grunted. “Ditched for four hours on the fifth satellite from Saturn with nothing to look at but jungle, and rocks—and things,” he finished vaguely.
The girl by his side looked up from a half-doze and revealed a freshly youthful face framed in corn-colored hair.
“Never mind, darling,” she consoled him. “It’ll give you time to realize how beautiful I am.”
“I don’t feel like being gallant,” Mart growled. “Besides, a guy doesn’t tell his wife how beautiful she is after being married to her for five years… Or does he?” he mused.
* * * *
Eda Latham elevated her tip-tilted nose disdainfully.
“Noted chemist on holiday from Europa trade satellite makes analysis of matrimony,” she sniffed. “O.K., be high hat if you want to!”
“Rhea,” Mart murmured, hardly listening to her, his gray eyes fixed on the 1500-mile diameter moon of Saturn as the vast space liner curved around towards it. “Y’know, I’ve often wondered what Rhea has on it. Titan’s pretty well known, of course, but the other smaller moons, Rhea among them, hasn’t had much to say for itself. Inhabitants of sorts, I understand; even an atmosphere. But devilish hot.”
“Naturally, being near Saturn,” Eda said, regarding him with level blue eyes. “Let me think now… Rhea is 337,000 miles from the primary. Right?”
“Right!” Mart agreed laconically. “Revolves in relation to the Sun at the speed of 4 days, 12 hours, and 25 minutes. Gravitation somewhat less than that of Earth’s moon. Atmosphere breathable, but only to a height of 1500 feet. Satisfied?—or shall I get you a guide book?”
The girl didn’t answer. She was watching the little moon rising up to meet the ship. Exhaust sparks, prevented from igniting the vegetation below by reason of subsidiary foam nozzles, spouted from the underjets. Saturn, vast and magnificent with its planetoidial rings, dominated all space. A partly molten, partly solid, but at all times rather grim, world.
Further in the distance beyond the rings moved the trading moon of Titan, and at varied intervals the but little explored other moons of Hyperion, Japetus and Phoebe…
Eda started to speak as the ship began to settle down carefully over a waste of sprawling green jungle; then she stopped and turned a little as a voice cut above hers. It was a slow voice, sonorously British, steeped in the toneless impartiality of the law courts.
“…but, m’lud, I would bring to your learned notice the case of Simmons-v-Simmons in 2415, exactly five years ago. There, the plaintiff alleged—”
“I am not interested, Sir Basil! Not interested in the least.”
Sir Basil Emmot, world and space renowned interplanetary Counsel of British law, mopped a bald head and blinked protruding, bovine eyes. Next to him, Judge Asa Walbrook—thin and wizened as a disinterred corpse, and about as attractive—looked at him sourly. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared to. Judge Walbrook had captured and condemned more criminals in his career than any other man alive; even now he was heading earthwards to preside over the trial of Nick Andrews, long evasive spacial filibuster.
“Cheery looking old dear, isn’t he?” Eda murmured, turning back to Mart. “That face of his would make any lemon jealous.”
