Datasets:
elapt1c
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ElapticAI-512

Dataset card Data Studio Files
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149M
"Come!" said the young man. "Come, Hank Cleaver."
He held out his hand. And Hank stepped forward into the blaze of
pallid, green-blue light.
Which was just one too many for Helen MacDowell. A tiny groan escaped
her lips. She tottered, pitched forward to Hank's shoulder. Hank turned
worried eyes to me.
"Grab her, Jim! Get her back before "
And I, too, leaped forward. I got my hands on Helen, started to pull
her from that color-field. I was aware of the distant throbbing of some
unknown machine, then of a swift, sudden shock. Great forces wrenched
at my body. I felt as if I were being racked in a titanic tug-o'-war.
There was an instant of frightful cold, another of giddy nausea, a
sensation of wild, hurtling motion.
Then blackness, soft, warm and impenetrable....
No, not impenetrable. For there was a light in my eyes, and my head was
no longer swimming, and I was lying on something comfortable, and a
friendly voice was saying,
"Here you are, Buster. Drink this!"
So why look a gift drink in the bottle? I drank it, and immediately
felt warmer inside. And more confident, too. Until I lifted my head and
looked about me. Then I let loose a howl that stretched from here to
there, with reverberations.
"Great galloping saints, where am I? No, don't say it! Let me guess.
World's Fair?"
My young companion looked puzzled. He was a decent-looking chap,
except for that wild costume he was wearing. A sort of uniform, but it
reminded me painfully of a Buck Rogers serial. Loose tunic and slacks,
sky-blue, with a Sam Browne belt and a gun holster into which was
jammed a weird-appearing weapon, all knobs and studs and buttons.
"How?" he said.
I said, "My my friends? Where are they?"
"They're up and around. You're the only fader."
He grinned. "You must be allergic to electricity, huh?"
I was still staring about me. The room was a humdinger. All metal and
plastic and glass; a small cubicle about six by ten, with a single bunk
(that on which I now sat, poised for flight) a desk, chair, porthole
Porthole!
"So that's it!" I yipped. "Shanghaied!"
I made a dive for the porthole, pressed my nose to it, hoping that
across the bounding blue I might see at least one faint ribbon of good
old terra firma.
But there was no land. There was no bounding blue. There weren't even
any clouds or sky! There was just gray. Wan, dismal gray that seemed
to stretch into infinity!
It was plain that I needed either one less drink or one more. I settled
for the latter. A long, straight one. It snapped me hurriedly out of my
speechlessness.
"Not that it's any of my business," I said, "but it looks to me like
there's nothing outside that porthole but a lot of gray emptiness."
My companion nodded dolefully.
"Yeah," he said, "I know. I've looked and looked."
"Where I come from, space usually has things stuffed inside it. So
apparently I'm not there. Which being the case, would you mind telling
me where the hell I am?" I demanded.
He shook his head. "That's just it, Buster. We don't know."
"You," I told him, "are a big help. Pass the bottle. Do you happen to
know your own name?"
"Yeah," he said. "Mud. It used to be Bert Donovan. I'm the radio
operator aboard this ship."
"Ship?" He was beginning to talk sense now.
"Lugger, I should say. This is the Saturn, friend. IPS freight
lugger, operating on the Earth-Mars shuttle. Or, anyhow, we used to.
Till he got monkeying around with that new power drive of his "
"IPS?" I strangled. "Earth-Mars? He?"
"Take it easy, friend. IPS interplanetary space ship.
Earth-Mars round-trip route, originally. Navigator, Lancelot Biggs,
the first mate.[3] Didn't you know "