The Amazing Adventures of The Emperor Number 4

 THE EMPEROR IN THE CITIES OF DANGER

 Charles Lee Jackson II

Prologue

 I LOVE SAN FRANCISCO. I mean, Hollywood is home, and I love it, too (at least, my Hollywood, which is somewhat more 'forties than average). There are maybe a dozen other spots on the globe I treasure, but there's just something about San Francisco.

Actually, there are a lot of things about it, not the least of which is the presence of the winner of the nation-wide "CL's sidekick we want to see more often" contest, the lovely and talented Shanghai Lil.

After the trouble I'd had the last time I was in town, I'd bought a new æroplane, and had brought it down uneventfully at Gashouse Cove, where I'd been met by the beauty herself.

We were strolling along near Fisherman's Wharf a little later when we stumbled onto a young riot. Shanghai dragged me into the middle of the crowd, where two old guys were arguing over a basket-woven crab-trap, the sort of thing with a funnel-shaped opening, into which, but not out of which, the crustaceans can climb.

"Do something," Shanghai chided.

"Owl roight, owl roight," I spoke up, "whot's all this then?"

The two oldsters ignored me, but I clapped my hands together very hard. They turned to me. "What's the problem?"

"He's tryin' t' steal my crabs," both chorused.

"Wait a minute. You first," I said to the one on my right.

"I pulled up my crab pot, and this guy tried to take it from me!"

I turned to the other.

"He try steal my crabs an' I stop him!"

I addressed the crowd. "Anybody know whose pot it is?"

Despite the number of times that question must have been asked in The City, it got the same answer as always. Nobody knew.

I knelt beside the pot and opened the front. Three very uncomfortable crabs were jockeying for position inside.

"Any of you guys know whose pot this is?"

The crowd backed away from me. I stood up, and said, "These guys say they never saw either of you before, and they want to go home."

The two old guys backed away from me, too. Suddenly Shanghai and I were all alone on the pier. I looked at her. "Happy?"

She smiled. I hefted the pot and walked it to the edge of the Wharf, tipping the crabs back into the Bay. Shanghai and I watched for a moment.

Two of the crabs popped up to the surface a moment later, one clearly pointing at me before they vanished into the water.

Shanghai's eyebrows rose. "What was that?"

I gave her my most annoying smile and said, "That one crab asked, ‘who was that nice human?’ and the one that pointed said ‘That was no human, that was... The Emperor!’"

Chapter One

Jurisdictional Dispute

ON THE NORTH slope of what used to be called Mount Parnassus is an interesting little modified Queen Anne house, which, if it were not painted mauve with black trim, would seem perfectly ordinary. Of course, the place is far from mundane, as is its owner. It's the pleasant little pied-a-terre maintained in The City by yours truly. At street level are coach-house and steps to the second floor, wherein are living room, den, dining room, kitchen, et cetera. The top floor contains the master bath and a combination bedroom and solarium, depending on whether the drapes are drawn or not.

This morning they were open, and I lazed over breakfast, watching San Francisco come to life.

I leaned back, thinking how sensible a nap would be right then, just after breakfast, before I dressed for the day. But there's so much potential fun in San Francisco that I decided to greet the day wide awake. And then something happened to justify my choice.

Shanghai Lil waltzed in. (Shanghai Lil, of course, isn't her real name, but, as regular followers of these chronicles know, she protects her privacy under this evocative nom de guerre, the derivation of which, if you but knew her better, would be patently clear.)

She paused, looking resplendent in a calculatedly casual outfit: snug slacks and an oversized V-neck sweater made of silk, with her hair in a high ponytail with a big lace bow. What you'd call the "Gidget" look. I wondered who she though she was fooling. She gave my outfit – silver pajamas and black silk dressing gown – the once over, and gave me an appreciative whistle, saying, "My, aren't we grahnd this morning," in her best Eric Blore impression. "I'll bet you wowwed the maid."

"Not yet. Actually," I groused, "except for you, the only one that's whistled at me so far was some fellow out on the street, when I stepped onto the porch for the paper."

Shanghai surveyed the wreckage of my repast, and took up one of the extra cups from the breakfast service. She poured herself a cup, and gestured with the pot. "Tin-fresh cocoa, Emperor?"

"Thank you," I acceded. As she poured me one, I added, "But no buttered toast: you spread it on a little too thick."

Shanghai made a face, and went to the window, looking out toward distant Telegraph Hill as she sipped her cocoa. I left my cup and stepped up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She turned her head slightly, looking at me in her periphery. "Did you have plans for today, Emperor?"

I took a deep breath, trying to decide how to phrase my answer. But I never got to deliver it.

For just then the telephone chimed. That was puzzling. Very few people had the number, and if it had been business, surely I would have simply heard the dulcet tones of my communications chief Richmond, intruding upon my shell-like ears – my hearing is, well, better than average – directly.

Shanghai knew this as well as I. She gave me a quizzical stare. My return expression said, don't ask me. I gestured to indicate she was free to answer if she wanted. She did.

"Shanghai Lil's Palace of Amusements," she said with a straight face. I suppressed a chuckle. After listening a moment, she held the handset out to me.

"It's Ed Green."

I took the instrument with interest. Certainly my old pal Ed had the number: among other things, he was the liaison officer between the US military and The Empire. What could this be?

His familiar voice came over the wire. "Are you busy, Sire?"

"That's... not a question I like to answer."

"Well, I've been told to secure your coöperation on a matter of great importance."

"Skip the officialese, Sport. What's cookin'?"

"The old need-to-know, CL. They didn't tell me. But if you can make a meeting this afternoon, it'd be a swell gesture of inter-governmental good will."

I snorted. I'm sorry, but that's what I did. Ed's been my pal for a long time, but he's done an excellent job of fitting into the military establishment, and that includes slinging their particular brand of verbal hash. "OK," I said. "Where and when?"

He gave me the particulars, and I rang off.

Shanghai's big bright eyes gleamed. "Something interesting?"

"Don't know yet. Whatever I had planned for today will have to wait. Something's cooking. Could be trouble."

"Trouble's my middle name."

"I thought it was—." (I actually said a name here, but that would be a clew to her true identity.)

She made a face. I made for the closet to pick out a wardrobe. The housekeeper never got to see my outfit, at least not on me.

THE PALACE OF Fine Arts loomed artistically in front of me as I arrived for my rendezvous. That's sort of its point, these days, looming, that is. The original building had been built as part of the nineteen fifteen Panama-Pacific Exposition, a sort of World's Fair celebrating the City's recovery from the big 'quake. The vast complex had filled what is today the Marina district, with palaces of machinery, arts, and amusement. It was the last flower of an innocent, pre-World War America.

Today, painstakingly duplicated from castings of the original, a new Palace stands facing the wonderful Exploratorium, with a swell pond at its back, just east of the Presidio.

This was the spot selected as the location for a singular meeting with a prestigious collection of dignitaries. It was an amazing group, and about to become more so.

As Shanghai Lil and I approached, Ed Green broke from the pack and came up to us. He was in mufti, presumably so as not to attract attention. Just as well: His dress uniform, with sergeant's chevrons, doesn't reflect his actual rank, but is an official pretext to cover up his specialized duties. He had hardly changed in the years I'd known him, still fresh-faced and stocky. Oh, his hair is shorter these days, but after all, he is in the service.

Naturally, I had changed into something more suitable, black shirt and trousers, grey jacket and tie. Shanghai hadn't changed, except to don sunglasses.

As I performed introductions, I scanned the crowd he'd left. I recognized a man from the Mayor's office and a guy from Sacramento. Uniforms indentified a Coast Guardsman, a sheriff, and a US Marshal. Two women in suits were so obviously from the FBI that I couldn't believe their supervisor let them out into the field.

What could have brought together such a group? And what did they expect me to do?

THEN, FINALLY, THE last member of this group showed up, as one of the federal girls opened the door of a limo that pulled up. That G-girl stayed back at the curb, becoming a lookout, while her partner accompanied the last member of our group when he approached and shook my hand.

He was an assistant to the Secretary of State.

"Mister Jackson," he began, "my apologies for the delay. And my thanks for coming."

"I was beginning to wonder whose party this was," I commented.

"Actually, that's the problem. It's no one's party – and everyone's."

The inboard FBI woman cocked an eyebrow at Shanghai and her flouncy costume. "This is a rather sensitive matter. Should she be here?"

Shanghai bristled slightly. I sighed. "Well, I'm a very sensitive person myself. Anything too sensitive for my associate would, I'm sure, be too much for me." I gave my head a little shake. "Fiddle-dee-dee."

"Excuse me?" The Federalette asked.

"My associates are the most trustworthy and worthwhile people you'll ever meet." I mentioned Shanghai's real name and explained that she, "has taken time out of her busy schedule to be here. Anything you tell me I'd simply have to repeat, and excluding her now would be rude."

Ed Green spoke up. "She's worked with The Emperor on several occasions. I'm sure the Joint Chiefs would have no problem with her participation." That shut up the G-girl.

"Now," I asked, "what's the situation?"

The marshal spoke up. "The situation is what you'd call a jurisdictional problem. Over the last three months we've had a series of raids by some sort of pirate."

"Pirates are a Coast Guard matter."

"Until they strike the Sacramento waterway – and until they hit an FBI cargo – and until they attack a foreign freighter off the Farallons."

"We couldn't agree on who should supervise the investigation," the gentleman from State explained. "Someone suggested that you frequently visit this area, and might have an interest in the matter. We were able to agree to see if you'd let us pass you the buck."

I frowned. This was one trip to the City that had been entirely motivated by social intentions. Both Shanghai and I had some free time and had decided to spend it together. The last time we'd tried this, we’d ended up in the Bay, by way of Nevada. It had certainly been a fun time, but rather more of a work-out than I'd intended. I looked over at her. "Sounds like a sailor's lot. What d’ you think?"

"I think you'll look adorable in a Donald Duck suit."

I pondered that one a moment. Disney's duck doesn't wear pants. The assorted officials looked puzzled.

"She means that a little investigation won't interfere with our intended vacation. Let's hear the back-story."

They gave me a few pages’ worth of exposition, about a series of raids staged in the fog by a crew of modern pirates. Boiled down, it seemed that it had started with a small sailboat, which had been boarded by a half-dozen men in crisp blue uniforms – sans insignia – who had relieved the owners, husband and wife, of money, food, water, clothing, kitchen utensils, and chandlery.

Private boats at dock had been similarly burgled. County-supervised ferries had been stopped and shaken down. The Red-and-White to Alcatraz was next. Then bigger vessels were included in the circle. Osaka Maru, a freighter out of Japan, had been knocked over, and not without difficulty, by a force of fifty.

Easily stored, non-perishable foodstuffs had topped the list of items stolen, with tools, rope, haberdashery, and fuel oil close behind. Drinking water and some currency had been taken, but seemed incidental.

Whenever possible, life had been preserved. No one had been killed, though one man was reported missing, and only three people had been shot, brave men who had opposed the pirates.

The pirates all wore beards, and blue uniforms. They sounded like the crew of Disney's Nautilus. Descriptions of the pirates all included these facts, but tended toward vagueness on other points.

Since the various authorities all had an interest, each had tried to take charge. And each had resented the same action on the part of the others. They'd been arguing for a week – well, they said discussing – when somebody suggested me. Thanks, somebody.

"...Sounds like we're going sailing, Shanghai."

That G-girl gave Shanghai a rude stare and pointed out, "We can't be responsible for injury to civilians, Mister Jackson."

Shanghai cocked her head to one side, flouncing her ponytail, and pulled down her shades with one finger, eying the Government woman over the frames, and frowned.

I shot her a sidewise glance and addressed the Federalette. "Nobody's responsible for Shanghai but herself, and maybe me, slightly," I said. "She'll be of considerable assistance in this matter."

"How do you know?"

"She always is."

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FREE SAMPLE CHAPTER "THE EMPERORS GAMBIT" 1ST ADVENTURE OF THE 1ST NON-COSTUMED SUPER HERO!

    "Combines the best of heady 60s and 70s spy adventure with the breakneck pace and scale of the great Republic serials, with a wry sense of good humor that rival's Napoleon Solo's best lines." - Steve Latshaw, screenwriter Stan Lee's Lightspeed, director Return of the Killer Shrews.

THE EMPEROR'S GAMBIT

Charles Lee Jackson, II

ISBN 9781615085002
Copyright 2013 by CLJII

Dedicated to the memory of
DONALD HAMILTON
Who handed me the key

BOOK I

   IT WAS GOING to be one of those mornings. Federal agent Max Decker crouched in the shadows, cold, wet, and thoroughly alert. He'd been on the trail of a gang of jewel thieves since about two AM, and had been led to King Harbor, Redondo Beach, California. When the three crooks had ditched their car and run around the end of the security fence, Deck had cut straight across to head them off.

   He'd located a waiting speedboat at the end of a service pier, and had ducked down behind a row of oil drums Now, as he heard their approaching footsteps, he touched the "send" button on his wristwatch radio, whispering, "Agent Two to Harrison. Stand...." Something was wrong – there was no joy on the circuit, no hiss of the electromagnetic spectrum. "...Harrison?" The call to his back-up wasn't getting through. And he couldn't wait. As the three burglars clambered into their boat, Deck darted from concealment.

   The boat roared away from the pier, leaving Decker still in pursuit. Making a desperate leap, Max caught a trailing sheet, and was dragged through the water, spray erupting in his face.

   Fighting against the backwash, Deck pulled himself forward, grasping fingers catching the stern rail. But as he rolled over the gunwale, one of the burglars spotted him.

   As the man moved in on him, Deck slugged him, knocking him back into the man at the wheel. The boat sharply ported its helm, and Deck lost his footing.

   The third crook came 'round out of the front seat, bringing up a pistol. Seeing a partially loose cleat on the rail beside him, Deck wrenched it free, and hurled it.

   The metal cleat struck the gun just as the man fired. The wild shot went straight through the back of the man at the wheel.

   Unaware of this, Decker leaped at the gunman, and the two struggled for the pistol while the boat ran wild. Spotting the pouch of stolen jewels on the front seat, Deck slugged his foe as hard as he could manage, and made a grab for the swag while the other man was stunned.

   Reaching over the front seat, Deck saw that the boat was headed straight for the breakwater. A sidewise glance revealed the fate of the pilot.

   Lashing out, Deck kicked the gunman in the face, and, jewel pouch to hand, launched himself over the side.

   With no one at the wheel, the speedboat careened ahead, smashing into flinders against the rocky breakwater in a flash of fire!

   "...IT TOOK ME twenty minutes to swim to shore," Deck explained, a little later that morning, in my office. My office being on the top floor of a building surmounted by the emblem of my studio, CLJII Pictures.

   He was still damp, and looked very worried.

   "…And your radio failed to work, huh?" I said.

   "It gets worse," he replied. "I got to Harrison, and his radio didn't work either – and when I tried to call my office on the 'phone, there was so much static it was useless.

   "Which is why I came over here. I figured if anybody knew what the problem was, it'd be... The Emperor."

 

 

THE EMPEROR CROSSES THE DEADLINE

Chapter One

DEADLY SILENCE

   HOLLYWOOD WAS JUST waking up outside the studio, that bright clear Spring Monday morning in nineteen seventy-six. In those hectic days, The Empire ran a middling sized motion-picture studio, a few blocks north of Hollywood Boulevard near Gower. A broad central avenue ran through the place, with an office building on one side and three Sound Stages on the other. Behind the stages was a small back lot with a shallow lake. Beyond the lake were a wooded glade and a mock-up of part of Bronson Canyon.

   Now, if you're wondering why a federal agent would be turning to a movie producer for help, it's easy to explain. Though my main job is entertaining people, I've long had a sideline as a champion of Justice.

   My name is Charles Lee Jackson, the Second, also known, as the above dialogue indicates, as "The Emperor", originally a reflection of the entertainment empire I was building, but also an apt name, given my special aptitudes. I had a disability as a child, and overcoming that disability was only a start for me; for, as a friend once told me, anything worth doing is worth overdoing. I worked at it very hard, as much to shame those who told me I never could as to improve myself. And I really did overdo it, at least as far as some people are concerned. I've become very smart, very fast, somewhat bullet-proof, and a little magical. My only real shortcoming is my modesty.

   Seriously, I decided that if I had the power to help others and crush crime, I really ought to use that power to do so. In the course of this I've made a lot of like-minded friends and gained enough respect that people like Max Decker would turn to me.

   As for the movie part, my friends in the trouble-busting game have graciously allowed me to recreate some of their adventures. I used to make movies about them; these days I'm a little too busy, so I stick to prose.

   BUT IN THOSE by-gone days of the 'seventies, my little studio doubled as a headquarters for the people I called "Swashbucklers" and whom others called "J-Men", Justice Men (and woman), free-lance crimefighters.

   Though we didn't know it yet, everybody else was aware of the problem onto which Max Decker had stumbled. We, however, were just getting started. In those days, on my lapel I wore an insignia with my company logotype, my signature in red on a silver background in a blue ellipse. But it wasn't just a badge, it was a two-way radio. "Richmond?" I addressed my radio operator. Working from a secret location, never seen by the public, he'd been with me a decade, and never failed to be on the job when anyone radioed or telephoned. But this time, there was no response. "...Richmond?" Nope, no answer. I picked up the office 'phone and dialed nine-nine-nine.

   "Richmond, why aren't—" the static was awful. I asided to Deck, "Jeez, you're right, I can barely hear him...." Back into the telephone: "Why aren't you answering the wireless? ...Oh." I cradled the receiver.

   "Richmond says he's been off the air since about four AM. The satellite microwave beamer faded out in the last half hour."

   "Which means?" Deck asked.

   "Which means that there must be what amounts to a world-wide radio blackout – and enough static on the 'phone lines to close down all communications in the world."

   Decker blinked. "Any idea who could be doing it?"

   I mused a moment. "Continent-Eight doesn't have the technology – they tried something like this a few years ago, on a very limited scale, and it didn't work." Continent-Eight being a world-wide organization of criminals, our most frequent opponents, about whom you'll learn more in time.

   "Hmmm," Deck considered at length, "it shouldn't affect the telegraph lines…."

   "That's an idea. Once the word gets out, or actually, doesn't get out, I expect some of our compatriots will turn up here, but if not, I'll get the word out one way or another and maybe we can learn something about what's going on out there."

   "OUT THERE", THINGS were popping. Over at LA International Airport, the RADAR was out, and the runways were being frantically cleared as a jumbo seven-forty-seven made its approach. The pilot, running on Visual Flight Rules, was trying to land the crate by the seat of his pants….

   …At Station Twelve of the aforementioned Continent-Eight, the Communications Chief was trying to comply with a request from Maskman, one of the people in charge. Tall and broad-shouldered, his identity was concealed by a steel helmet.

   "Sorry, Leader Four. I can't connect you with Station One. We have white noise on all channels."

   Maskman – whose only link to the outside world was his radio – could barely hear her speaking. "What? I can't hear you – I've got white noise on my radio." He tapped his pocket communicator, but it didn't help….

   …In the south of England, an old retired officer from the lancers was annoyed. His butler was having trouble tuning in the BBC broadcast.

   "Sorry, sir. The Home Service seems to not be on the air today."

   "Dash it all," the old gentleman complained. "Whatever happened to reliability? Whatever happened to pride in your work?

   "That's the second time in twenty years."

   A STURDILY BUILT fellow entered my office without an introduction from the girl in the outer office. It was my partner, David McDaniel. Dave, author of an assortment of spy novels and SF stories, was also a proficient marksman who sometimes joined me on my adventures. At the studio, he mostly practiced his favorite trade, as Director of Photography and Key Film Editor. Additionally, he kept an eye on things on the set until I arrived to take over the Director's chair.

   Presumably, he had come up to report on the morning's studio activity. Radio or no, Production would go right along – at least unless the static interfered with the Nagra sound recorders.

   "See?" I said, "They're floating in already. Max Decker, you remember my right-hand man, David McDaniel?" Max waved a greeting.

   "Hiya, Siya," Dave responded, "Hi, Deck." He brushed a stray lock of his pale brown hair away from his green eyes and said, "I was just down on the set. Robin's supervising the swing gang down on stage B. …Who's floating in?"

   "Nobody in particular, just Swashbucklers in general. I've got a feeling we've got a big problem ahead."

   "Bob and Bill expected?" Dave asked. He referred to our comrades in film and arms, Robert Short and William Mills, who not only worked on stunts, effects, and music for CLJII Pictures, but also lent their fists and brains to the fight for Justice.

   "Well," I explained, "Robert is up at Vasquez Rocks with the Effects crew placing charges for tomorrow's location shoot. Lord knows where William has gotten himself to... But I assume they'll both be along sometime today."

   The door opened again, and my Executive Secretary stepped in. Heather McKenzie, beautiful, smart, with pretty blue-green eyes and soft light brown, almost blonde, hair, had been with me for several years, handling everything from a Continent-Eight attack to stalling off no-talent Hollywood bimbettes looking for work.

   "Sire? There's a woman outside to see you." It was a familiar situation, though not one often brought to my attention.

   "Only one?" quipped McDaniel.

   "Well," McKenzie allowed, "there are about a dozen waiting... but this one seemed special."

   The girl in question had poked her head in. Seeing who she was, I said, "She certainly is!"

   She came running to my open arms. "Uncle Sire," she cried.

   "Illenya Petrina," I greeted her.

   As we hugged, I remembered our last meeting – which had also been our first. Visiting a Soviet science conference, to which I had been invited as someone who represented the West and did not represent US foreign policy, I had met Pyotr Vostok, a member of a science group I won't name, and had been invited to stay at his home. There I was introduced to his pretty teen-aged daughter, who, having shown the aptitude, was already working with her father. Like all pretty teenage girls, she was quite taken with me.

   That had been nineteen seventy-three, and she'd done an excellent job of growing up in the interim. Even having her blonde hair pulled into a severe bun in the back didn't detract from her milky complexion and bright blue eyes; and the plain sweater and skirt and boots she wore didn't hide her attractive figure.

   McKenzie gave her the eye and turned on a heel, leaving.

   "It is good to see you again," Illenya told me, "and I wish that was my only reason for coming." She indicated the others in the room. "May I speak freely?"

   "Yes." I introduced the gentlemen, and ushered the girl to a sofa.

   "My country has sent me to ask you to once again help with a difficult situation; to ask you to oversee the decommissioning of Utrennaya Zvyozdochka as a gesture of peace to the western nations."

   Not many things catch me off guard. This did. "You mean Utrennaya Zvyozdochka still exists?"

   Deck, surprised at my sudden concern, asked, "What's this 'Utrennaya' whasis?"

   "Utrennaya Zvyozdochka," McDaniel thought a moment. "That's Russian for... 'Morning Star'."

   "That's right," I said. "A very poetic name for something quite the contrary.

   "It's a leftover from the frantic 'fifties: an automatic nuclear retaliatory base located in the Caucasus. It launches a strike automatically unless countermanded every twelve hours by a coded radio signal!"

   Deck, who had leaned back against my desk, jumped to attention. "Say what? But… that would mean—"

   "Exactly. And from her calm demeanor, I doubt Illenya knows that there's a world-wide radio blackout!"

   The Russian gasped. "What is this?"

   I explained what we believed about the interference.

   She blanched. "But if Moskva cannot radio the base, the computer will assume that Russka has been destroyed!"

   "Yes," I added, "and blast the US to atomic rubble in retaliation! Unless we can get there in time and stop it!"

   I turned to Max Decker. This re-stacked the cards. "This is far more important than the radio blackout itself. The whole world could be doomed! You hold down the fort here. I'll be back."

   I headed for the side door, the one that led straight to the inner courtyard. "Illenya – come with me – quick!!"

   I breezed past McKenzie, who, having overheard the whole story, was returning from her office. McDaniel joined her as I left. She remarked, "If he's not back in a few hours, the whole world could be doomed."

   David nodded absently. "Maybe we should run and hide.

   "...As soon as we figure out where."

   RESTING IN A launching cradle in a courtyard beyond sound stage A was a singular aircraft. Designed like a scaled-down Concorde, with swept-back delta wings and a droop nose, His Majesty's – well, My – Ship Skystar was the only 'plane of its kind. The entire underside of the fuselage was lined with plates made of CL-arium, a unique metal the properties of which include the ability to screen out the force of gravity itself. Since I'd discovered it and found a way to synthesize it, I got to name it. I told you modesty wasn't one of my strong points.

   As Illenya strapped herself in, I fired up the twin Rolls-Royce engines. The ship trembled against the docking clamps, until I touched the button that blew them free.

   Skystar shot into the heavens at tremendous speed. With an effective weight of only a few pounds, the engines could push the massive craft well beyond the speed of sound. We'd be over the Soviet Union in a couple of hours.

   Lining up on magnetic north, I pushed back from the control panel. George could fly it from here. I needed more info from Illenya.

   "Do you know the details of how 'Morningstar' is set up?"

   "No, no details," she said. "I was just to ask you to meet with our people and watch so that your President would be assured of our sincerity."

   "He's not my President," I pointed out. "Without the schematics, and with so little time to spare, I may have to do this the hard way."

   "Hard way?"

   "Rockets don't fly very well if you've beaten them to pulp with your bare hands."

   FAR BELOW, MY friends watched the tiny black speck that was Skystar disappear into the northern sky. McDaniel's trained eye spotted something else, though. He pointed and asked, "What's that?"

   The others saw it too, a tiny gleam of light racing across the heavens, doing something all but impossible: catching up with Skystar!

   Then the glint vanished, but a moment later something happened to prove that it had not been an optical illusion.

   As something flashed past my field of vision, Skystar was rocked by a tremendous explosion!!

   The port engine was wrecked, and the whole ship lurched over. Illenya, who had released her seat belt, was thrown across the cabin. Falling myself, I got under her and kept her from harm.

   With the starboard engine still going full blast, the ship began to loop into a left-handed spin, zooming out-of-control around the sky.

   I made a dive for an access panel – closer than the controls at the moment – and cut the engines. Skystar continued its caper across the heavens, but at least it gained a modicum of stability.

   Now going to the control console, I flipped the switch to allow for individual control of the CL-arium plates. By rocking the application of gravity, I hoped to straighten out the ship. The problem with gravity manipulation is that inertia doesn't like to play along.

   Presently I had us on a straight course. By letting gravity pull on the tail assembly, I slowed our forward motion. Then I set all the panels at point zero zero five of one G and let Skystar float toward the ground. Below was the Antelope Valley, with plenty of acceptable touchdown points.

   I glanced back toward Hollywood, musing, "They're going to be somewhat surprised down on the ground when they see what hit us."

   Illenya, whose hair had come undone in the shaking, was busily fixing it, but stopped to ask, "You saw something? What did it look like?"

   I had a sketch pad handy, and put my pen to it, drawing a distinctive shape, with highlighting and everything. Illenya recognized it. Anyone would.

 

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