Read Online Buck Rogers 1 - Buck Rogers in the 25th Century by Addison E. Steele - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Addison E. Steele
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another ten seconds or so, he calculated, he would be into the shadows, invisible to even Wilma Deering’s sharp eyes—and safe.
He counted down—ten . . . a couple of paces . . . nine . . . a couple more . . . eight . . . and he heard a slight sound behind him . . . seven . . . he fought down an impulse to look over his shoulder, an impulse that would reestablish eye-contact between himself and Wilma, an impulse that might be fatal . . . six . . . five . . . he thought he heard a soft sob from behind him, and felt himself tremble as he continued to walk purposefully ahead . . . four . . . he was past the halfway mark in his march from peril to safety . . . three . . . he could all but feel the shadows deepening around him . . . two—
—and the world ended!
Buck never knew what hit him. There was no sound of an explosion of propellent fuel or discharge of electrical potential; there was no sense of impact, no flash, no odor of burned cordite or sour, ionized ozone.
There was just—nothing.
Wilma Deering stood dumbly where she had stood to fire her sidearm at the escaping prisoner. She had seen the flash of her hand-laser, felt the surge of electricity as it went screaming through every atom in Buck Rogers’ body. For the seconds that she hesitated she had been two women.
Colonel Deering of the Intercept Squadron coldly and deliberately performing her duty to the service and her planet. And she had been Wilma Deering, woman of flesh and blood and emotions, struggling to keep her other self from firing at the man for whom she had come to feel as she had never before felt for any other person.
And now, the dutiful military officer having triumphed for just the length of time it took to raise and fire her weapon, the warm, feeling woman stood shattered by her own cold-blooded act.
She lowered the laser, dumbly returned it to its holster and stood watching the scene before her. She saw guards rushing from the remote entrances of the hangar toward the motionless form of the man she had shot.
A day later Dr. Huer looked up from his desk at the sound of the door to his office opening. A box stood on his desk, its surfaces gleaming translucent plexiglass through which multi-colored lights flashed and glowed in an ever-changing, yet oddly facelike pattern. Between the aged scientist and the computer-brain lay a typewritten document both had been studying.
Colonel Wilma Deering entered the office and stood for a moment contemplating the scientist and the computer-brain. Her glance finally took in the document and she asked them what it might be.
Huer cleared his throat as if to win a delay of even half a second in answering the young woman. Then he said, “It’s something to make you feel a little better about what you had to do last night.” He lifted the paper from the desktop and handed it to Colonel Deering.
She stood silently while she scanned its contents, then read it a second time, more carefully. At last she raised her eyes from the flimsy sheet to the face of the old scientist. “Then it’s true,” she said despairingly, “he was working for the pirates.”
Before Dr. Huer could answer her words the computer-brain on his desk flashed its lights into a brighter pattern than ever. “I don’t agree with you,” the computer grated, “I simply am not convinced of Rogers’ guilt.”
Dr. Huer raised his hands in resignation. “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course, just like anyone else, Theo. But you see, you’ll find yourself standing alone, if you’ll pardon my use of the expression. The evidence is conclusive, isn’t it?
“Rogers’ ship had a microtransmitter attached to its navigational computer. Whoever had a receiver tuned to the transmitter’s frequency now has a nice clear map revealing all of earth’s secret access corridors through space . . .”
“Still . . .” The computer-brain was hesitant to accept Huer’s conclusions.
“Still indeed,” the old man said. “Our
He counted down—ten . . . a couple of paces . . . nine . . . a couple more . . . eight . . . and he heard a slight sound behind him . . . seven . . . he fought down an impulse to look over his shoulder, an impulse that would reestablish eye-contact between himself and Wilma, an impulse that might be fatal . . . six . . . five . . . he thought he heard a soft sob from behind him, and felt himself tremble as he continued to walk purposefully ahead . . . four . . . he was past the halfway mark in his march from peril to safety . . . three . . . he could all but feel the shadows deepening around him . . . two—
—and the world ended!
Buck never knew what hit him. There was no sound of an explosion of propellent fuel or discharge of electrical potential; there was no sense of impact, no flash, no odor of burned cordite or sour, ionized ozone.
There was just—nothing.
Wilma Deering stood dumbly where she had stood to fire her sidearm at the escaping prisoner. She had seen the flash of her hand-laser, felt the surge of electricity as it went screaming through every atom in Buck Rogers’ body. For the seconds that she hesitated she had been two women.
Colonel Deering of the Intercept Squadron coldly and deliberately performing her duty to the service and her planet. And she had been Wilma Deering, woman of flesh and blood and emotions, struggling to keep her other self from firing at the man for whom she had come to feel as she had never before felt for any other person.
And now, the dutiful military officer having triumphed for just the length of time it took to raise and fire her weapon, the warm, feeling woman stood shattered by her own cold-blooded act.
She lowered the laser, dumbly returned it to its holster and stood watching the scene before her. She saw guards rushing from the remote entrances of the hangar toward the motionless form of the man she had shot.
A day later Dr. Huer looked up from his desk at the sound of the door to his office opening. A box stood on his desk, its surfaces gleaming translucent plexiglass through which multi-colored lights flashed and glowed in an ever-changing, yet oddly facelike pattern. Between the aged scientist and the computer-brain lay a typewritten document both had been studying.
Colonel Wilma Deering entered the office and stood for a moment contemplating the scientist and the computer-brain. Her glance finally took in the document and she asked them what it might be.
Huer cleared his throat as if to win a delay of even half a second in answering the young woman. Then he said, “It’s something to make you feel a little better about what you had to do last night.” He lifted the paper from the desktop and handed it to Colonel Deering.
She stood silently while she scanned its contents, then read it a second time, more carefully. At last she raised her eyes from the flimsy sheet to the face of the old scientist. “Then it’s true,” she said despairingly, “he was working for the pirates.”
Before Dr. Huer could answer her words the computer-brain on his desk flashed its lights into a brighter pattern than ever. “I don’t agree with you,” the computer grated, “I simply am not convinced of Rogers’ guilt.”
Dr. Huer raised his hands in resignation. “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course, just like anyone else, Theo. But you see, you’ll find yourself standing alone, if you’ll pardon my use of the expression. The evidence is conclusive, isn’t it?
“Rogers’ ship had a microtransmitter attached to its navigational computer. Whoever had a receiver tuned to the transmitter’s frequency now has a nice clear map revealing all of earth’s secret access corridors through space . . .”
“Still . . .” The computer-brain was hesitant to accept Huer’s conclusions.
“Still indeed,” the old man said. “Our
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