13 - Empire by Clifford D. Simak

**Clifford D. Simak** (0:00)
CHAPTER XIII of EMPIRE by Clifford Simak This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The ship was silent now. Even the whisper of the cards had stopped. Reg and Max were on their feet, startled by the cries of Pete and Chisie. It's burning! shrieked Pete. He's watching us! Chisie's hand whipped out like a striking snake toward the controls, and, as he grasped them, his face went deathly white. For the controls were locked. They resisted all the strength he threw against them, and the ship still bore on towards that mocking face that hung above the earth. Do something! screamed Max. You dungful! Do something! I can't! moaned Chisie. The ship is out of control! It seemed impossible. The ship was fast and tricky, and it had reserved power far beyond any possible need. It handled like a dream. It was tops in aircraft, but there was no doubt that some force more powerful than the engines and controls of the ship itself had taken over. Manning's got us! squealed Pete. We came out to get him now. He has us instead! The craft was gaining speed. The whining shriek of the air against its plates grew thinner and higher. Listening, one could almost feel and hear the sucking of the mighty power that pulled it at an even greater pace through the tenuous atmosphere. The face was gone from the sky now. Only the moon remained, the moon and the brush-stroke mountains far below.
Then suddenly the speed was slowing, and the ship glided downward, down into the sore teeth of the mountains. We're falling! yelled Max, and Chitty growled at him. They weren't falling. The ship leveled off and floated, suspended above a sprawling laboratory upon a mountaintop. That's Mudding's laboratory! whispered Pete, in terastric intones. The levers yielded unexpectedly. Chitty flung the power-control over, drove the power of the accumulator-bank, all the reserve, into the engines. The ship lurched, but did not move. The engines whined and screamed in torture. The cabin's interior was filled with a blast of heat, the choking odour of smoke and hot rubber. The heavy girders of the frame creaked under the mighty forward thrust of the engines, but the ship stood still, frozen above that laboratory in the hills. Chitty hauling back the lever turned round, pale. His hand began clawing for his heat gun. Then he staggered back. For there were only two men in the cabin with him, Reg and Max. Pete had gone. He just disappeared, Max jabbered. He was standing there in front of us. Then all at once he seemed to fade, as if he were turning into smoke. Then he was gone. Something had descended about Pete. There was no sound, no light, no heat. He had no sense of weight. It was as if suddenly his mind had become disembodied. Seeing and hearing and awareness came back to him, as one might turn on a light. From the blackness and eventless existence of a split second before, he was catapulted into a world of light and sound. It was a world that hummed with power, that was ablaze with light, a laboratory that seemed crammed with mighty banks of massive machinery, lighted by great globes of creamy brightness, shedding an illumination white as sunlight, yet shadowless as the light of a cloudy day. Two men stood in front of him, looking at him. One with a faint smile on his lips, the other with lines of fear etched across his face. The smiling one was Gregory Manning, and the one who was afraid was Scorio. With a start, Peach snatched his pistol from its holster. The sights came up and lined on Manning as he pressed the trigger. But the lancing heat that sprang from the muzzle of the gun never reached Manning. It seemed to strike an obstruction less than a foot away. It mushroomed with a flare of scorching radiance that drove needles of agony into the gangster's body. His finger released its pressure, and the gun dangled limply from his hand. He moaned with the pain of burns upon his unprotected face and hands. He beat feebly at tiny licking blazes that ran along his clothing. Manning was still smiling at him. You can't reach me, Pete, he said. You can only hurt yourself. You're enclosed within a solid wall of force that matter cannot penetrate. A voice came from one corner of the room. I'll bring Chisie down next! Pete whirled round and saw Russell Page for the first time. The scientist sat in front of a great control board, his swift, skillful fingers playing over the banks of keys, his eyes watching the instrument in the screen that slanted upward from the control banks. Pete felt dizzy as he stared at the screen. He could see the interior of the ship he had been yanked from a moment before. He could see his three companions, talking excitedly, frightened by his disappearance. His eyes flicked away from the screen, looked up through the skylight above him. Outlined against the sky hung the ship. At the nose and stern two hemispheres of blue-white radiance fitted over the metal framework like the jaws of a powerful vice holding the craft immovable. His gaze went back to the screen again, just in time to see Chisie disappear. It was as if the man had been a mere figure choked upon a board, and then someone had taken a sponge and wiped him out. Russ's fingers were flying over the keys. His thumb reached out and tripped the lever. There was a slight hum of power, and Chisie stood beside him. Chisie did not pull his gun. He whimpered and cowered within the invisible cradle of force. You're yellow! Pete snarled at him, but Chisie only covered his eyes with his arms. Look, boss, said Pete, addressing Scurrio. What are you doing here? We left you back in New York! Scurrio did not answer. He merely glared. Pete lapsed into silence, watching.