Chapter 17

It was a weird revolution. There were few battles, little blood shed. There seemed to be no secret plots. There were no skulking leaders, no passwords, nothing that in former years had marked rebellion against tyranny.

It was a revolution carried out with utter boldness. Secret police were helpless, for it was not a secret revolution. The regular police and the troopers were helpless because the men they wanted to arrest were shadows that flitter here and there ... large and substantial shadows, but impossible to seize and imprison.

Every scheme that was hatched within the government circles was known almost at once to the ghostly leaders who stalked the land. Police detachments, armed with warrants for the arrests of men who had participated in some action which would stamp them as active rebels, found the suspects absent when they broke down the doors. Someone had warned them. Troops, hurried to points where riots had broken out, arrived to find peaceful scenes, but with evidence of recent battle. The rioters had been warned, had made their getaway.

When the rebels struck it was always at the most opportune time, when the government was off balance or off guard.

In the first day of the revolt, Ranthoor fell when the maddened populace, urged on by the words of a shadowy John Moore Mallory, charged the federation buildings. The government fled, leaving all records behind, to Satellite City on Ganymede.

In the first week three Martian cities fell, but Sandebar, the capital, still held out. On Venus, Radium City was taken by the rebels within twenty-four hours after the first call to revolt had rung across the worlds, but New Chicago, the seat of government, still was in the government’s hands, facing a siege.

Government propagandists spread the word that the material energy engines were not safe. Reports were broadcast that on at least two occasions the engines had blown up, killing the men who operated them.

But this propaganda failed to gain credence, for in the cities that were in the rebel hands, technicians were at work manufacturing and setting up the material engines. Demonstrations were given. The people saw them, saw what enormous power they developed.

Russ Page stared incredulously at the television screen. It seemed to be shifting back and forth. One second it held the distorted view of Satellite City on Ganymede, and the next second the view of jumbled, icy desert somewhere outside the city.

“Look here, Greg,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

Greg Manning turned away from the calculator where he had been working and stared at the screen.

“How long has it been acting that way?” he asked.

“Just started,” said Russ.

Greg straightened and glanced down the row of television machines. Some of them were dead, their switches closed, but on the screens of many of the others was the same effect as on this machine. Their operators were working frustratedly at the controls, trying to focus the image, bring it into sharp relief.

“Can’t seem to get a thing, sir,” said one of the men. “I was working on the fueling station out on Io, and the screen just went haywire.”

“Mine seems to be all right,” said another man. “I’ve had it on Sandebar for the last couple of hours and there’s nothing wrong.”

A swift check revealed one fact. The machines, when trained on the Jovian worlds, refused to function. Anywhere else in space, however, they worked perfectly.

Russ stoked and lit his pipe, snapped off his machine and swung around in the operator’s chair.

“Somebody’s playing hell with us out around Jupiter,” he stated calmly.

“I’ve been expecting something like this,” said Greg. “I have been afraid of this ever since Craven blanketed us out of the Interplanetary building.”

“He really must have something this time,” Russ agreed. “He’s blanketing out the entire Jovian system. There’s a space field of low intensity surrounding all of Jupiter, enclosing all the moons. He keeps shifting the intensity so that, even though we can force our way through his field, the irregular variations make it impossible to line up anything. It works, in principle, just as effectively as if we couldn’t get through at all.”

Greg whistled soundlessly through suddenly bared teeth.

“That takes power,” he said, “and I’m afraid Craven has it. Power to burn.”

“The collector field?” asked Russ.

Greg nodded. “A field that sucks in radiant energy. Free energy that he just reaches out and grabs. And it doesn’t depend on the Sun alone. It probably makes use of every type of radiation in all of space.”

Russ slumped in his chair, smoking, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

“If that’s what he’s got,” he finally declared, “he’s going to be hard to crack. He can suck in any radiant vibration form, any space vibration. He can shift them around, break them down and build them up. He can discharge them, direct them. He’s got a vibration plant that’s the handiest little war machine that ever existed.”

Greg suddenly wheeled and walked to a wall cabinet. From it he took a box and, opening it, lifted out a tiny mechanism.

He chuckled deep in his throat. “The mechanical shadow. The little machine that always tells us where Craven is--as long as he’s wearing his glasses.”

“He always wears them,” said Russ crisply. “He’s blind as a bat without them.”

Greg set the machine down on the table. “When we find Craven, we’ll find the contraption that’s blanketing Jupiter and its moons.”

Dials spun and needles quivered. Rapidly Russ jotted down the readings on a sheet of paper. At the calculator, he tapped keys, depressed the activator. The machine hummed and snarled and chuckled.

Russ glanced at the result imprinted on the paper roll.

“Craven is out near Jupiter,” he announced. “About 75,000 miles distant from its surface, in a plane normal to the Sun’s rays.”

“A spaceship,” suggested Greg.

Russ nodded. “That’s the only answer.”

The two men looked at one another.

“That’s something we can get hold of,” said Greg.

He walked to the ship controls and lowered himself into the pilot’s chair. A hand came out and hauled back a lever.

The Invincible moved.

From the engine rooms came the whine of the gigantic power plant as it built up and maintained the gravity concentration center suddenly created in front of the ship.

Russ, standing beside Greg at the control panel, looked out into space and marveled. They were flashing through space, their speed building up at a breath-taking rate, yet they had no real propulsion power. The discovery of the gravity concentrator had outdated such a method of driving a spaceship. Instead, they were falling, hurtling downward into the yawning maw of an artificial gravity field. And such a method made for speed, terrible speed.

Jupiter seemed to leap at them. It became a great crimson and yellow ball that filled almost half the vision plate.

The Invincible’s speed was slacking off, slower and slower, until it barely crawled in comparison to its former speed.

Slowly they circled Jupiter’s great girth, staring out of the vision port for a sight of Craven’s ship. They were nearing the position the little mechanical shadow had indicated.

“There it is,” said Russ suddenly, almost breathlessly.

Far out in space, tiny, almost like a dust mote against the great bulk of the monster planet, rode a tiny light. Slowly the Invincible crawled inward. The mote of light became a gleaming silver ship, a mighty ship--one that was fully as large as the Invincible!

“That’s it all right,” said Greg. “They’re lying behind a log out here raising hell with our television apparatus. Maybe we better tickle them a little bit and see what they have.”

Rising from the control board, he went to another control panel. Russ remained standing in front of the vision plate, staring down at the ship out in space.

Behind him came a shrill howl from the power plant. The Invincible staggered slightly. A beam of deep indigo lashed across space, a finger suddenly jabbing at the other ship.