Part 2

"How do you know they will attack another ship, Captain Wallace?" joined in Chapman. "I agree with Simms. We're sacrificing our lives for a trifle. Even if they should transfer with us, the patrol ship that picked us up could get back to Mars before they'd done much damage. Are you going to kill us all to save a few holes in a patrol rocket's hull?"

Only one feeble light burned in the pilot cabin; the others were extinguished to conserve power. Cargyle noticed the air had a thick, dry taste to it.

* * * * *

"I can answer some of those questions, with your permission, sir," said Markoe, stepping forward. Wallace nodded. "Do you realize, Mr. Chapman," continued Markoe, "what it would mean if we led these things back to Mars? They reproduce; multiply where their food supply is greatest. Can't you picture it? From Mars to Earth to Venus. And what would they leave behind?"

"You know they're living things, and what their food supply is?" demanded Chapman.

"They're not protoplasmic, but what's life? They're alive in the sense we mean. They reproduce. Cargyle and I both have seen them. And as for their food supply--yes, I can tell you definitely what it is.

"These things are not matter--they're pure energy. I've seen nothing like it before. They're energy concentrated and undissipating--held together somehow. And that energy behaves in a life-like manner. It feeds on energy, and it grows.

"Call them earthworms of space. They break up matter--do something to the big, complex atoms of the heavy elements to break them down. And when they are done, the light, simple atoms are left--hydrogen, and helium. That's what's happening to the _Denebola_--the earthworms of space feed on the energy in the heavy atoms of her metal hull, and we find traces of hydrogen. The rest of it drifts out into space. And that will go on till there's no metal left. They haven't attacked living things. Maybe they can't. But they'll never leave the _Denebola_ while a shred of metal remains. Unless they can be destroyed or driven away there's no hope for us."

"You mean--" began Chapman.

"I mean, sir, that we dare not call any ship to our assistance while these things exist. I have found no way of destroying them. If we lead them back to Mars, and they prove indestructible, we would doom the system. They would be carried to every planet. And the planets themselves are food for them."

"Mightn't other physicists succeed where you fail, Markoe?" asked Chapman, with a sneer. "Maybe you're not as good as you think! We have plenty of brilliant men in the labs and universities. They'd probably lick these spaceworms in no time."

"There are many men more brilliant than myself," replied Markoe, ignoring the sneer. "And if they can be destroyed those men would find the way. But it would take time. Time! I am not in error about that, Mr. Chapman. Barring a lucky accident it would take months of experiment. Think of the loss of life that would precede their success! And it's fully possible that they are indestructible. Lord, man! Will you gamble the fate of our whole civilization just to save your own skin? These flames are of disease of metal--maybe a disease of planets. By our oath, we must find the cure--or not return!"

"Damned nonsense!" broke in Simms. "To hell with that stuff! Why haven't these flames attacked the planets before, if they're all you say? And if they've just come into the system we can't stop them. They're probably on the planets already. What good will our death do? I don't have to be a physicist to see that these things can live in space. They don't need heat or air. They can go where they like--"

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Simms," interrupted Markoe. "They can't go where they like. It's true they need no atmosphere. But they do need _food_! They can move through empty space only relatively short distances; the force which holds them together consumes tremendous quantities of energy. When the _Denebola_ is gone they will break up, die, if you want to call it that, unless an asteroid or meteor is within their reach. And they aren't new to the system, in my opinion. I suppose they're as old on the asteroids as life is on Earth; older, maybe, but they can't cross the enormous gulf between the asteroid belt and the nearest planets, Mars and Jupiter."

"You're space crazy!" retorted Simms. "Why, in that length of time they'd have reduced a quarter of matter a thousand times as great as all the asteroids--"

"You forget the distances between the asteroids themselves. The normal 'death-rate' of the earthworms of space on the asteroids must be very high. And their consumption of stone and ore is much slower; I've timed them on samples we collected."

* * * * *

Simms shook his head, as though to clear it. His eyes were blood-shot and wild, his face sullen. "I don't give a damn for all that! That's just guessing. Maybe he's right and maybe he ain't. I say he's space-crazy, and drunk on bad air. Earthworms of space! Hell! Talk and talk and talk, while we're all dying! Barfield, get Tracolatown! We're calling a patrol ship out to us. Go on, start your set!"

"Barfield, sit still!" Wallace's quiet voice was like the sharp edge of a knife. "Mr. Simms, you are under arrest. Mr. Chapman, I remind you that you are an officer. It should not be necessary. I have seen raw apprentices who behaved better--"

Chapman made a move toward the captain, belligerently. But Simms was before him. "Do you see that?" he cried, pointing wildly at a port beyond which the cold stars gleamed. "Do you know what that is, out there? It's death! Death, do you understand, you fool? And it's coming in here--it's closing on us, while you stand bleating about--"

"He's right, and I'm with Simms," shouted Chapman, suddenly. "Captain or no captain, we're calling Tracolatown, and the rest of you interfere with us at your peril!"

A cold stillness, an awful sense of impending disaster grew in that shadowy cabin. Only the captain moved, stepping a pace or two away. His gray eyes under the thick, white brows, were gleaming coldly, and his right hand hung suggestively near the holster at his hip. When he spoke his voice rang with scorn. "Drop your weapons, both of you! You disgrace the service! You are cowards!"

"Coward, am I? I'll show you, you old fool!" With the glint of madness burning in his eyes, Simms swung his hand down to his holster, brought it up holding a blastor pistol. Chapman's hand moved. The spell holding Cargyle snapped and he sprang into action. Chapman was nearest him. Cargyle swung from the hip--smashed his fist into the pilot's jaw. The man went over backward; crashed on the floor; lay still. At the same instant two brilliant flashes blazed almost as one in the gloom--two thunderous detonations roared and echoed in the narrow cabin. Cargyle's eyes sought the two principals in the swift drama.

For an incredibly protracted moment Simms and the captain stood staring at each other, each bent slightly forward. Cargyle noticed abstractedly that the force of the explosions of their guns had thrown their hands up slightly.

Then Simms slowly straightened, stretched, stood tall as he could, muscles straining. Abruptly he collapsed and fell in a limp and lifeless heap upon the floor. Slow blood welled through the back of his shirt.

"For Mr. Simms' death I shall take full responsibility, should I ever be in a position to make a report of the occurrence," said Wallace, and thrust his blastor pistol back in its holster. "Parker, Swift--remove his body. And relieve Mr. Chapman of his pistol."

* * * * *

The slow hours crept by. Men no longer spoke. They sat apart, unmoving, in the shadowed cabin. Markoe alone was absent--at work in his laboratory in the stern; hopeless, but fighting to the last. Parker lay sleeping peacefully.

The air was still, and faintly musty. Beyond the ports the stars blazed. The ship was rolling slightly, and at long intervals the sun, small with distance, rose sluggishly in the starboard ports, shot shafts of brighter light into the cabin.

In the silence a clock's tick was loud, portentous--a funeral drum attending the passing seconds. With a curse, one of the men got up and stopped its ticking.

Cargyle was lost in a deep reverie, remembering Earth, his home, his parents, green fields bright with spring foliage, the great cities he had known, the mountains, seas. In his imagination he heard the music of Earth, and saw the sunrise. It was very far away now, and lost forever. But he had known the price the spaceman paid. He had no regrets.

Into his line of vision crept a pale blur of light and his eyes focused on it. It was a flame-thing--one of the earthworms of space. They had at last invaded the pilot cabin. Idly he watched it. It was no more than a foot in length--an "infant." It made a feeble glow against the wall as it came slowly toward them, its tip moving like the tongue of a snake.

Parker awoke, and made a small disturbance as he groaned, yawned, and got up and helped himself to water and food. When he gathered his tools and started for the recalcitrant rocket timer one of the anonymous shapes in the shadow growled: "For Lord's sake!"

"Go to hell," said Parker, and crouched down over the timer.

Cargyle grinned. With so little time left--and to spend it on a broken piece of machinery! But after all, maybe Parker's way was the sanest. He was moving the manual control, and the timer crackled, and spat fat, blue sparks.

The flame-thing suddenly recoiled, drew back as though stung. Cautiously it advanced again; again sprang back. It rose upright, stood weaving and swaying.

"You fool! Don't you know we're--"

"Sure I know!" Parker shut off the timer to turn and answer. "We're going out! To hell with it! Sit there and cry about it, if you want! But before I go I'll know what's wrong with this damned thing!"

The "infant" flame was advancing again.

Parker switched on the timer, and began his rhythmic movement of the control. The instant the timer began its hissing little beat, the "spaceworm" stopped, sprang erect, began twisting, winding. It had approached quite close. A tiny sound came from it--a thin, high squealing--the first sound Cargyle had ever heard them make.

Something strange was happening to the spaceworm. It had lost its unity; its upper end was splitting up into fine threads of twisting color that spread out, separated.

The squealing ceased; there was a final faint _pop!_ a brighter flash of color, then the thing was gone!

Cargyle at first watched curiously, then with a growing intentness. When the spaceworm vanished he sat staring. Slowly his eyes swung around to the timer, mumbling feebly as Parker moved its control. It spat its brisk, blue sparks.

And suddenly Cargyle got it! The timer ... Parker working on it hour after hour ... and no spaceworms in the control cabin--no spaceworms in the cabin till Parker slept, and the timer was still!

"Barfield!" he yelled, in a voice that brought the men to their feet. "Send our position! We've won! We're going in!"

Lord, was there time? He grabbed up a space-helmet, switched on its tiny set, and shouted into the speaker: "Come back, Markoe! I've found it--the wave-length! Come back!"

* * * * *

It was simple, the way Markoe explained it later. The lucky accident, the chance in a million, had happened. The field which the broken timer built up when operated neutralized whatever force held the flame-things together. The spaceworms could only retreat before that field; if they were caught in it their cohesion vanished, and their energy fled--they "died."

It was only necessary, Markoe said, to analyze and then amplify that field; send it pulsing out into space. Most of the spaceworms would be caught in it instantly, gathered, as they were, upon the _Denebola_. If any were further out in space they would be driven back before the field, or overtaken and destroyed.

The heavy hopelessness that had filled the control cabin vanished. Lights went on. Barfield snapped on his set.

"The _Denebola_ ... calling Tracolatown. Calling 3TRA45 ... this is the _Denebola_...." Strongly, urgently, the call went out.

"Can we last?" Cargyle asked.

"If we contact them quickly," replied Wallace. "At the worst, we can hold out a while in space-suits. But we've got to pick up the Tracolatown station soon."

Markoe and Parker set to work on the timer; Captain Wallace and Cargyle checked and rechecked their position; everyone seemed to find something to do. But all activity stopped, men stood motionless to listen, as they heard it--faint at first, but swiftly stronger, clearer, even to the tinge of anxiety in the voice.

"... where are you, _Denebola_? Report your position at once. We have been calling you. What is your position, _Denebola_? Patrol rocket ready to take off. Tracolatown calling the _Denebola_...."

The musty air seemed fresher as that voice echoed in the small control room.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Space Flame, by Alexander M. Phillips