By JOSEPH E. KELLEAM ILLUSTRATED by FINLAY...

I N KANSAS, spring usually falls on the day before summer. It had been such a day, and now at midnight I was sitting at my desk. Both hands of the clock were pointing to the ceiling—and to the limitless stars beyond. My wife and daughter had long been asleep. I had stayed up to write a few letters but it was not a night for working. Although it was a bit chilly outside, the moon was bright and a bird was singing a glad and plaintive song about the summer that was coming and all the summers that

J ACK ODIN descended into the cavern—or what Keefe had called the Hole—for less than a hundred yards before his strong flashlight sent its lancing beam into a stone wall. At his feet was a crevice which went straight down as though it had been measured by a giant square. He got to his knees and looked over. Playing his light around he detected a few ledges like narrow steps far below. It was pitch-dark down there, and not even his strong light could reach to the bottom. He tried tossing a few pe

G OING to the pool, Gunnar began to wash his bleeding arms. “Yes, Old Gunnar knew you would be here, Jack Odin, for it was writ in runes of silver long ago that a man will go to the gates of death and brave Old Nidhug the dragon there to find his maid.” “And how is she, Gunnar? Where is she?” But the dwarf did not answer for a few minutes. He stared moodily into the coals, and then feeling behind him in the dark he found a bright shirt and struggled into it. “I was getting ready to take a bath w

S OON the floor of the cavern was slippery beneath their feet. “The waters came up to here,” Gunnar said. “Now, take a deep breath, Nors-King, for the air gets worse before it gets better.” He was right. The stench of dead things came crawling upward to meet them. Soon the floor was littered with the things from Opal’s sea that had crept here to die. Huge, fanged saurians, lizards, toads, snakes. The cave was strewn with their carcasses, some half-decayed, others drying into hardened shells, oth

A S THE the boat sped over the water, leaving a churning wake behind it, Jack Odin remembered that first sea-voyage he had made on the seas of Opal. It was June-time then, and Maya had been with him. Perhaps they had thought that June would last forever. Perhaps they had thought that all of life would go by at five miles per hour. Remembering that slow, wonderful trip—almost like a voyage in a dream—he sighed as he held on to the skipping boat. They were now going well over sixty. Gunnar seemed

I N THE days that followed there was no time for rest. Thanks to the smaller prototype which had already gone into space, no elaborate tests were required of the new ship. Moreover, the scientists had taken centuries to go over the Old Ship, bolt by bolt, part by part, wire by wire. Improvements had been made, but these had been incorporated into the little prototype which was now successfully berthed within a cavern somewhere on the moon. Over thirty men and women had gone with it. Wolden was c

W OLDEN and Ato, acting as pilot and co-pilot, set The Nebula down with as much ease as a housewife putting a fine piece of china upon the drainboard. There was no fuss and no noise. Jack Odin had seen B-47’s come in with a great deal more hubbub and dithers than the Nebula had caused. The screens were still on. Out there all was dark, and a wealth of stars was in the purple-black sky. They seemed larger and brighter. Wolden touched a knob and the stars on the screen before them slowly grew larg

A T THEIR request, eight couples and their children were brought from The Nebula to the cavern. For the crew of the first ship had been old men—and the cavern had never known a child’s laughter. Then Ato led his group back to the moon’s surface. As a little conveyor belt hoisted him through the tube into the central core of the ship, Jack Odin found himself worrying a bit about Nea. She had decided to go on with them. Due to her experimental interests, Jack had supposed that she would stay with

T HE three sunlets of flame merged together and dripped yellow blobs of light into the darkness. They grew into a great soap bubble that turned to topaz. Like something moving in a dream it gained upon The Nebula, until it was pacing beside them—a little larger now and still growing—dwarfing them and filling half the screen. A shadow—no, two shadows—were growing within it, Odin tried to make them out. But they were dark and wavering. Still, they looked something like a high priest standing above

A TO’S probing instruments still pointed the way to Aldebaran. In a surprisingly short time, the warning signals were flashing and jingling throughout The Nebula. There was that same sick feeling as it moved slower than the speed of light. And there was a glowing sun with nine planets circling stately about it. Slower The Nebula moved, and slower, until the outermost planet sparkled in the light of its sun below them. They swooped down. Not a single blast was fired at them. Every man was at his

A LTHOUGH Gunnar had spent most of the past four days in grumbling and polishing his sword, there had been hours and hours when Odin had not seen him. The little man had a secret, but what it was he would not tell. “For,” he said to Odin, “then it would not be my secret. It would be mine and yours, and I would own but half of it. Does a man give half of his flocks away?” Odin was a bit hurt over his friend’s behavior. He even wondered if Gunnar had taken a liking to one of the white-skinned slav

H E HAD been drowned. He was floating in a sea of light, and now and then shining little fishes swam inquisitively up to him and stared. They would look at him with wide, cold eyes and then dart off into space, leaving a flashing wake behind them. They hurtled through the murky light like shooting stars. And once two of them dashed together and burst like a rocket. The sparks came falling down through a billion miles of space, and as they fell they built up planets and systems of their own. Unti

T HE dust-cloud was farther away than Ato had guessed. Long before they reached it, his instruments began to waver. He looked at a star-map. Meanwhile, Nea fed rows of figures into a humming calculator. “We’ll never make it this way,” Ato said. “Not even the emergency storage would help us. Here,” he pointed to a pinpoint of light upon the map. “A white star. We can reach it, I think.” Nea sighed. “That dust-cloud is beyond our calculations. We should be nearly there, but it’s still far-off. I t

T HE two ships landed a few miles apart at almost the same time. They settled to the plane’s surface like whirling hour-glasses. Fire spouted from them in all directions. Then their movement stopped. Smoke shrouded them and slowly drifted away. They were upon a reddish plain. Above them, the red sun filled a twelfth of the sky. That sky was one vast swirl of crimson. Even the few clouds seemed to be on fire. And yet their instruments showed that the temperature of the thin air outside was in the

V AL and his men had brought along enough of the umbrella-shaped defenses to get them through the barrier. They held a short council of war. It was agreed that every able-bodied man would go into the city. Nea and a few of the older men were detailed to stay by The Nebula and take care of the women and children. Nea had screamed and protested against that. She had only agreed to stay upon one condition: That she be left one of the umbrella-skeletons. The nights, Odin learned, were about sixteen

G UNNAR and Odin followed the hedge for a long way, until they came out against the far side of the dome. The noise of fighting still continued. It was back of them, but drawing nearer. Odin guessed—or hoped—that Ato and Val were driving the defenders before them. They came out upon a lane that was flanked by the beautiful colonnades. Near them was one of the entrances to the tunnels below, and beside it was one of the stone cressets with a high-flaring flame. At the end of the lane was a dais.

A DEADENING quiet fell over the huge room where Maya’s and Ato’s little armies were making their last stand. The flames were dying out in the tunnels and on the stairway. They fed more fuel to the fires and waited. Maya was at Odin’s side now. They clung together. Jack Odin kissed her and swore that they would never be parted again. “Until death—” Maya said and raised her lips to his. He shivered. It was a promise and an assurance that might be kept too soon. The fires could not burn much longer

A LL this happened while Grim Hagen was rushing toward Odin and Maya. A thin trickle of blood was flowing down the corner of Hagen’s mouth. Odin heard the voices. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some men go down. The room felt cold now, and a thin breeze was going through it, as though blown gently across the star-spaces. He saw a light dart down toward Grim Hagen. But at that instant Grim Hagen reached him and swung his sword. Jack Odin stepped aside. His foot slipped upon the unsteady plan

S IX months had passed since the battle. The city of the violet dome was rebuilt. The ashes of the dead had been strewn upon the mossy plains. The two ships now stood in peace and gazed at each other across the expanse of moss and grass that had replaced the cinders left from the fighting. Another city was being built a few miles away. Ato had soon recovered from his wounds, and as ship’s captain had married Maya and Odin. So it was over. But Odin and Maya had asked for Gunnar’s ashes, and had b