*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64173 ***

                            THE FATAL THIRD

                         By THEODORE L. THOMAS

             _Peace had had its fling in the 21st century.
             Now was the time for violence ... and rugged
              Third Officer Webster ... and the miserable
              Uranians who knew not what they unloosed._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Planet Stories November 1953.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Hanford Webster, third officer of the space ship _Polaris_, was
afflicted with what would have been known in the twentieth century
as a first class jinx. However, more about the jinx later. He
wasn't thinking about that right now where he was on duty standing
his trick in the astrogation chamber. The fleet was nearing its
destination--Uranus. And then it happened.

One instant the ten-ship Earth fleet was streaking through space. The
next moment nine of the ships broke up into small pieces, actually
disintegrating there in his visi-plate before the bulging eyes of Mr.
Webster. Twisted fragments of metal formed a cloud in space and began
to fall in a gentle arc toward the planet Uranus some fifty thousand
miles away. It was a hideous cloud, liberally sprinkled with frozen
bits of human beings who had been the pride of the space fleet only a
split second before.

The tenth ship almost didn't get away. It was flying lookout position
four hundred miles behind and above the main fleet. Even so, it got a
severe jolt--like smashing into a solid wall. If anybody except Third
Officer Hanford Webster had been at the controls God only knew what
would have happened.

Third Webster saw the whole thing in the visi-plate just as his own
ship gave a mighty lurch. A lesser man might have blacked out under the
shock. But Webster kept his faculties. Almost automatically he kicked
the _Polaris_ in a wide circle away from the tiny ship that had put out
from Uranus. And at the same time he started to check the damage.

"First," he called over the intercom. "First."

No answer.

"Second," he called.

"Here," came a weak answer. "What happened?"

"I don't know yet, but we're the only ship left. Find the First and
come up."

"Okay."

One after another Webster checked the crew. No one dead or even
seriously hurt. Fourteen men had been knocked out. There were a few
sprains and pulled tendons and at least one bruised soul. Even disaster
seems to have a sense of humor. The Chief Machinist had been sitting in
the head when the blow struck. They found him there helpless, thrust
deep into the toilet, wildly cursing.

The First arrived at the Control Room. The _Polaris_ by this time was
heading swiftly back to Earth.

"Have you warned Earth?" asked the First.

"Not yet," said the Third, "I've just finished checking. We're in good
shape."

"I'll tell them then," said the First. "What a surprise this is going
to be. It will upset everything."

And so the call went out to Earth. The Uranians had destroyed an Earth
Fleet at 0622 Greenwich on April 13, 2072.

Right after the _Polaris_ grounded, its officers were summoned to
appear before the World Court. All the officials were there. Every
branch of science was well-represented.

Third Officer Webster led off. He minutely described what he had seen.
He explained how the _Polaris_ had acted. But it had happened so fast
that his description was sketchy. No one was able to figure out how the
Uranians had done it. Webster's best guess was:

"It looked like the ships were yanked off their course and just broke
up under the strain--like a strong magnetic field suddenly appeared
in the middle of them. But that couldn't be."

The others agreed. Scientists long ago had found that things like death
rays and peculiar beams could never exist. It was impossible to get
enough energy in an extended beam to have any effect on anything.

Several hypotheses were proposed and rapidly shattered. The question of
what had done it reached a blank wall.

But even more puzzling was the question of _why_. The Uranians were
utterly incapable of bearing the malice necessary to start a war. They
were as detached and unemotional as a rock.

Again the Court got nowhere.

Doctor Trant stood up.

"I don't think we can separate the two questions, _how_ and _why_. So
I recommend that we play back all the tapes we've made since we first
contacted Uranus. Most of us know the whole story already, but with all
of us listening together we might pick up something we've missed."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a good idea. The Court decided to start the recital the
following day in the Great Auditorium; it would take until then to get
everything organized. In the meantime the scanners continued to watch
Uranus for signs of any hostile move.

That night the Spacemen's Bar was unusually crowded. It was mostly
due to the Uranus situation, but not entirely. Third Officer Hanford
Webster had been a Third Officer for six months now. He was due to pop
again anytime and get busted. And when he did the Spacemen didn't want
to miss it.

Han Webster was a monster of a man, huge and ugly. He had a face like a
bottle of warts topped with a great shock of brown hair. He stood six
feet seven, barefoot, and weighed in at two-hundred and sixty-three
pounds, plus or minus five. Yet there wasn't an ounce of fat on him.
He had hands like two bales of hay and legs that were as big as most
men's waist. Despite his bulk he moved like a cat; he was beautifully
coordinated.

None of those that knew him ever realized he was ugly. His quick laugh
and ready friendliness seemed to change his warty complexion into one
of peaches and cream. He was probably the most popular man in the
whole select group of Spacemen. There was only one thing wrong with
him; he never took the trouble to avoid trouble.

Webster rose quickly through the ranks once he got out of Space School.
His mind was as alert as his body so he outdistanced all his peers; the
seniority system of promotion had long since been outmoded. A man rose
on his own merits.

Webster had been a Third Officer only three months when he ran into his
first little difficulty. He was strolling down the center of the street
when a parade headed by a band started coming the other way. A burly
Space Patrolman kept just ahead of the band clearing the way. When he
saw Webster he called out:

"Out of the way, Third."

Somehow that didn't set right with Webster, so he just stopped and
looked at the Patrolman. The Patrolman got annoyed and made a fatal
mistake. He laid his hands on Webster. The next instant he sailed
through the air and landed at the feet of the crowd that was beginning
to form at the curb.

Webster started to leave but by that time the Drum Major was up to him.
The Drum Major didn't think Webster was moving fast enough so he gave
him a little shove. Then things began to happen.

An assessment of the damages later showed that in the battle of Webster
versus the Band, Webster was the victor. It took a hack saw to get the
trombone player out of the wrappings of his trombone. Several other
players were wearing their instruments too. And Third Officer Webster
became Sixth Officer Webster.

But you can't keep a good man down. In three months he was up again.

The second incident wasn't his fault, at all. He was leaving the Post
Delicatessen one night after buying cold cuts. As he approached his
runabout he saw someone fiddling with the controls, apparently about to
drive off in it. With a roar he heaved his package at the dimly-seen
figure. The package burst open from the jet-like power of his huge
hand and various objects sped toward the intruder like a charge of
buck-shot. One of them found its mark. But Webster wasn't so proud of
his aim a moment later when he pounced on the man. Webster had conked
himself an Admiral. The Admiral struggled groggily to his feet. He had
been hit squarely in the mouth with three feet of whistling liverwurst.
It took the medics two days to make the Admiral a new set of teeth. But
it only took the Board fifteen minutes to make Webster a Fifth.

It was along about then that Webster's friends began kidding him about
never getting beyond Third. He didn't mind--not too much. And the next
time he got up to Third he kept an eye on himself. So did half the
Fleet. But it didn't do any good.

He was standing at the bar one night chatting with a few friends.
He'd had a couple of drinks, but nothing much. None of the Spacemen
drank much. Anyhow a group of eleven men gathered behind him and began
needling him. He good-naturedly parried their remarks for awhile. Then
one of them called him a cave man.

Webster's great hands were resting on the bar. His muscles tightened.
He spun around and charged right through his tormentors. Since he
happened to be carrying the top of the bar at the time, the fight ended
right there. But the Board took a dim view of a man that destroyed
property. So Webster was reduced to Seventh.

There was no doubt about it. There was a jinx riding on the Third
Officership as far as Webster was concerned. He couldn't overcome it.
Every time he got there those two drag-buckets he used for hands would
push him back. And there was no way to overcome it. He was living in
the wrong kind of world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Webster was a man built for violent action. If he could have joined
Count Raymond IV on the First Crusade the other eight probably wouldn't
have been necessary. Or if he could have stood with the Housecarles
at Hastings that October day in 1066, Harold would have been king of
England, not William. Webster should have lived in the days when a
brilliant man with a powerful body could carve himself out an empire if
he wanted to.

But he didn't. Instead he lived in a world that hadn't seen a war
in over a hundred years. Violence was dead. Even sports calling for
physical contact had vanished. Weapons were unknown except in museums.
The only competition to be found anywhere was in such sports as track
or swimming or tumbling. Webster excelled in those but it wasn't
enough. Something deep in his nature called for more. And unfortunately
the call always seemed to come when Webster's superiors were
considering moving him from a Third to a Second. But after surveying
the wreckage they always changed their minds and moved him the other
way. Webster was a man born a thousand years too late. And the only
place he could even begin to use his talents was with the Space Fleet.
He was almost happy there.

The whole Fleet was rooting for him when he got his Third for the
fourth time. The seventeen-hundred men that manned Earth's seventeen
space ships were all behind Webster to help him over the fatal barrier.
Even those that bore the scars of his violence were all for him. He was
too good a man to dislike.

But Webster's problem shrank to almost nothing after the disaster that
destroyed over half the Space Fleet and killed nine hundred of the
world's finest men. The Spacemen were in a murderous mood. All of them
had lost good friends. They were a closely-knit body and there wasn't a
man left among them that wasn't ready to blast Uranus right out of the
system.

But with what? There was no such thing as a war weapon any more. Of
course it would be possible to assemble one of the old lithium-hydride
bombs, but there didn't seem to be any chance of getting close enough
to Uranus to do any good--not with the new weapon the Uranians had.
There was nothing to do but wait and see what turned up at the Court
tomorrow. So the Spacemen milled around the Spacemen's Bar that night,
grumbling and restless and keeping half an eye on Webster.

       *       *       *       *       *

The recital started early. The auditorium was packed. Many of those
there had been on Uranus and knew what the Uranians were like. The
recital was old stuff to them. They heard how the rocket ships had
successively explored Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn and found them
all lifeless, even sporeless. They heard how the ships approached
Uranus with no lively hope of finding anything worth while--of
everyone's surprise to discover an advanced civilization flourishing
there. They heard the transcribed voice describe what the Uranians
looked like:

"... about a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. They have three
legs and three arms each composed of three segments of massive bone
surrounded by a heavy layer of fat and leatherlike skin. Each limb
terminates in a small prehensile finger. The body measures forty-five
centimeters in diameter on the average. The top portion of the body
has three eyes, three nostrils, and two mouths. One mouth is used for
water, the other for food. In appearance, the Uranians seem outlandish
to Earthly eyes. They walk...."

The experienced men smiled. Outlandish, he says. They looked like a
three-armed watermelon sitting upright on a three-legged stool. A man
could drive himself nuts trying to keep track of how they walked. Two
feet were always on the ground, the third one moving forward. Each foot
took its own turn. The end result was that each Uranian seemed to have
dozens of feet when he was in motion. And he could change direction
with the startling suddenness of an ant. His body wouldn't turn at all;
he'd just suddenly begin moving off at a tangent.

"... no language as we know it. They communicate with one another in
short bursts of sound which verge on the supersonic. We understand
their speech only by means of instruments which graph the duration and
pitch of the sounds they make. As a consequence our intercourse with
them is limited. We have been able...."

Frank Wadden smiled to himself, remembering the endless hours on Uranus
trying to make sense out of the shrill bleats of the Uranians. Wadden's
Group Leader had been the man that finally found the key. Like all
keys, it had been simple. The shrill bleats were a code. Each bleat of
a certain pitch and duration conveyed a concept, a word picture, in
much the same way that the Chinese language did. But the human voice
couldn't reach the high range where the Uranians conversed, so sound
machines had to be used. And they were far from satisfactory.

"... disease among them for fifty thousand years. They now do very
little medical research since, in the absence of disease, none is
required. Those suffering from organic malfunctions are either cured by
surgery or exterminated. There is no question but that their medical
skill is of a very high order. They have arrived at a point which we
will probably never be...."

Doctor Trask snorted. Yeah, they were great doctors all right. No
wonder. With no animals to experiment on they simply used each other.
When a Uranian doctor needed a guinea pig he merely stepped outside his
laboratory and snagged the first passerby. And many of their diseases
in the old days had been wiped out by killing off all the victims.
Medical students learned anatomy by cutting open their fellow-citizens
alive. New foods and liquids were tested by observing the reactions of
those who swallowed them. Yes, sir. Their medical skill was of a very
high order.

"... only possible because their nervous system does not register
pain. In fact, their nervous system is such that they are completely
emotionless. There is no possibility for a Uranian to feel any of the
Earthly emotions such as love, hate, rage, or pride. They approach the
status of vegetation in that respect. They...."

That was something that had always puzzled Johnson. He couldn't
understand how it was possible for a reasoning creature to be such
a cold fish. He remembered the day he had landed the _Vaga_. Just
before the ship settled to the surface three Uranians had blithely
strolled into the rocket's blast and fried themselves. Johnson had been
horror-struck. But it didn't bother the other Uranians in the vicinity.
They calmly disposed of their countrymen's cinders as though they were
throwing away a burned-out match. They were completely disinterested in
the whole incident.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bolton, too, had faced that disinterestedness, but from a different
angle. Bolton had been with the Group that tried to find out if the
Uranians had wanted anything that the Earth could supply. He had tried
to show the Uranians something about Earth foods and Earth science.
But the Uranians weren't interested. Often right in the middle of a
difficult conversation the Uranian would just up and walk off. It
wasn't that he was annoyed. He wasn't capable of being annoyed. It was
just that he'd thought of something better to do. It was frustrating as
hell.

"... science as advanced as our own along a few narrow channels. Their
rocket fuel is very similar to our Ozonile but they have never used it
to explore anything outside their planet. Their IR scanners too are
strikingly similar to ours. In the discovery of the Kant Alloy though
they have surpassed us. A pellet made out of this alloy will attain a
high velocity when it is immersed in a magnetic field. The velocity
has been known to reach the same velocity as our space ships, namely
one-ninth the speed of light. Unfortunately only a very small pellet
can be accelerated in this manner.

"Temperature plays a very important role here. The Kant Alloy will not
accelerate except under the extremely frigid conditions as they exist
on Uranus or in space. Our latest information shows that the Uranians
have been making attempts to increase the velocity of the pellets.
Our magnetic shields will still protect our men and ships, however,
no matter how fast the pellets travel. We need not worry about future
carelessness from the way the Uranians use the Kant Alloy. They...."

Grizzled, gray-haired, Don Hedge closed his eyes. He had been aboard
the _Altair_ the time the Uranians got careless with the Kant pellet.
He'd never forget it. He had been standing by the fuel pumps as the
_Altair_ prepared to land on Uranus. Suddenly the whole ship reeled
from a tremendous blow. Concussion stretched out half the crew. The
scream of escaping air filled the ship. Only the quick action of two
crew members saved them from asphyxiation. Everybody aboard thought
they'd been hit with a tiny meteor. But as soon as they got down to
Uranus several Uranians came over and began taking measurements of
the two holes in the _Altair_. It was so unusual for them to take an
interest in Earth ships that the crew got suspicious. A few laborious
questions brought it out. Oh, sure. The Uranians were conducting a
little experiment--had to find out what the little pellet did to an
Earth ship. There was a stunned moment's hesitation; then the Earth
crew jumped them.

That fight brought two factors to light. One; a Uranian would fight
when he was personally attacked by a foreigner. Two; a Uranian was
just about the equal of an Earthman encased in a space suit. Don Hedge
remembered that fight proudly. He'd done well for a young fellow in
spite of the difficulty of coping with three arms. He would really have
fixed his Uranian if Jones hadn't stepped in with that spanner wrench.

The Uranians forgot about the fight as soon as it was over. They didn't
hold a grudge; they felt no malice. But every Earth ship and every
space suit was modified to carry a gentle magnetic field over its
entire surface. And there was never any more trouble with the Uranians
and their scientific experiments.

The recital droned on.

       *       *       *       *       *

Third Webster stirred restlessly, not listening. Somewhere here lay the
answer. Somewhere mixed up in the Kant Alloy and magnetic fields lay
the solution they were all looking for. It couldn't be a ray; science
had shown that to be impossible. Or had it? The Uranians were good
along certain lines. It would be just like them to pop up with the
impossible.

The recital ended toward evening. Immediately Ashdown's clean deep
voice cut in:

"Gentlemen. One thing seems obvious. Whatever it is they've discovered,
they are only testing it out. They are not trying to destroy us. If
that's the case we need only wait until they get enough data, then it
will be safe to go near them. It might be safe now. We could send a
remote-controlled gig from one of our ships to see if they down it."

The argument started. Some wanted to send bombs. Others wanted to
wait and see what happened. But a majority wanted to follow Ashdown's
suggestion even though it might mean the loss of one of the eight
remaining ships. A vote was taken. Ashdown won.

At reveille the next morning volunteers were called for from among the
Spacemen. Every man was ready. So the Board sat down to pick the crew.

Admiral Cantwell was to go as First Officer. There was some discussion
about the Second but he was soon picked. When it came to Third the
Board didn't even have to think. Webster. But as his name was being
written down one of the Board remembered something. He leaned forward
and hesitantly asked Admiral Cantwell:

"Is Webster all right with you, Admiral?"

"Of course. Why not? He's the best we've got."

"I know, but--well. You and he had a run-in so...."

"That's done with," said the Admiral. "I shouldn't have been handling
his runabout anyhow." He stopped a moment, then went on. "You know. We
could clean up this whole situation if we could only get Webster down
on Uranian soil, say right in the middle of Central City. Damn. Can you
imagine what would happen?" He fingered his mouth reminiscently.

The others tried to imagine it, and couldn't. So they got back to work
listing the crew.

At dawn the _Sirius_ took off. A hundred thousand miles short of Uranus
she swung into an orbit around the planet. That was close enough.

Two hours later the remote-controlled gig was ready. All hands watched
it flash away from the mother ship, gathering speed every millisecond,
set on a course that would carry it within fifty miles of the rim of
Uranus.

Webster sat tensely at a visi-scope in the _Sirius_. Maybe he'd see
something that would crystalize the formless thought within him. More
than ever he felt he had the answer right at his fingertips. But he
couldn't drag it out.

He saw a Uranian ship rise to meet the gig. The two drew closer
together. And when they were about ten-thousand miles apart the gig
suddenly crumbled. There was no explosion, no sign of a ray, nothing.
The gig just broke into little pieces.

An audible gasp went up from the crew of the _Sirius_.

Webster heard the Admiral and the Second talking behind him.

"I didn't see a thing. Did you?"

"No, sir."

"How about you, Webster?"

"No, sir," said Webster, turning around. "But they're getting something
across. There's got to be something there."

"Yes, but even our spectroscopes didn't show anything. I don't know.
This beats me." He shook his head. "Radio Earth and tell them about it."

Webster did so. He handed Earth's answer to Admiral Cantwell. He
grunted when he read it.

"Return to Earth, huh. This has been some mission. Well, we've got to
obey it. Take her home."

Webster gave a last try for the answer. His mighty body was rigid with
the tension he was under. But it wouldn't come. He was beaten. He gave
a big sigh and sat back and relaxed as the _Sirius_ swung around toward
Earth.

Then it hit him. He had it. He leaped up with a yell that shook the
panelboards. The Admiral and Second jumped a foot in the air looking
wildly around.

"I know how to get through," shouted Webster. "Admiral," he calmed down
a little, "Let me have the other gig. I'll take it down. I can get
through. I know...." He broke off and headed for the door.

"Come back here," roared the Admiral. "Dammit, man, you scared ten
years off me. Settle down now. Tell me what's this all about?"

Everybody calmed down.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I think I know how they do it," said Webster. "If you'll let me take
the gig I can soon find out without risking the _Sirius_."

"You're crazy," broke in the Second. "Try it with a remote-controlled
gig. It'll only take a few hours to rig it. There's no sense in your
going."

Webster ignored him.

"May I try it, sir?"

The Admiral was silent, looking at the towering figure of Webster. He
spoke softly, half to himself:

"It's a helluva world when a man can't risk his own neck trying out
some fool idea." Then louder. "No. I can't let you. Tell us about it
first so I can see if it's any good."

Webster shook his head.

"I'll tell you about it over the radio, sir. Then you can follow me in
the _Sirius_. That is--if I'm right. If I'm not, it won't matter."

"In that case, forget it," said the Admiral. "I'm not going to have
you torn to shreds."

Webster started to protest, but the Admiral cut him off.

"No. That's final."

Webster strode out mad enough to spit. He pulled up in front of a
bulkhead, raised a mighty fist--and stopped. He didn't even give a
second thought to the idea that crashed into his mind. He lit out down
the passageway.

Ten minutes later the second gig took off, with Third Webster at the
controls.

In the first few seconds Webster had a horrible thought. Suppose the
Uranians now had enough data. Suppose their experiments were over and
he just flew in, and they didn't even try to knock him down.

He switched on the visi-scope and radio. No. The Uranian ship was
turning around and coming to meet him. Good. He reached for the
throttle and cut off his rockets. The Admiral's voice came over the
radio:

"Webster, you'll get thrown out for this. Come back here. And for God's
sake don't slow down like that. You're a sitting duck for them."

Webster cut in his forward rockets to slow himself even more. He turned
on the magnetic shield and then spoke to Admiral Cantwell.

"That's the idea, Admiral. All the ships that have been knocked down
have been travelling at full speed. And that's what's done it."

He kept his eye on the Uranian ship. It was almost within range. He
went on.

"We knew the Uranians were trying to increase the velocity of the Kant
pellets. Well, I figure they've done it."

"But they still can't get them through the magnetic shield," said the
Admiral, his tone growing less stern.

It was almost time. Webster's speed was down to five thousand miles an
hour.

"They don't have to get them through the shield," answered Webster. "I
figure the pellets now move at close to the speed of light. So when one
of them passes close by our ships going the opposite direction under
full power it sets up--"

The gig gave a slight lurch. That was all, just a slight lurch.

"See?" shouted Webster. "They can't knock me down when I'm going slow.
The relative velocity isn't great enough."

The Admiral's voice took on a new note.

"I think I see what you're driving at. Mass goes up with velocity."

"Right."

The gig gave another small lurch. Webster laughed and went on.

"The relative velocity between the ship and the pellet is probably only
a few octillionths short of the velocity of light. So somewhere in the
pellet-ship system a huge mass momentarily appears. It's enough to
tear the ship apart. And our own high velocity has been what made it
possible. They don't even try to hit us; they just try to come within
some minimum distance."

Silence from the _Sirius_. Then.

"Well done, Webster. Well done. Go on in. We'll follow. You've got
about a twenty-minute start on us so we'll meet you in Central City."
He stopped, then went on: "I owe you something for that runabout
incident I guess, so I'll overlook this disobedience. Besides, if
you're ever going to get beyond Third somebody is going to have to
overlook something. This'll do it. Good luck, man."

Just before Webster clicked off the radio he overheard the Admiral say
to the Second:

"The Uranians have one thing to be thankful for. They don't have any
teeth."

Webster grinned and happily pulled on his space suit. The jinx was
broken. Second Officer Webster coming up. There was nothing but
Uranians ahead of him. And just wait till he got his hands on _them_.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64173 ***