Captain Future 16 - Magic Moon (Winter 1944) (3 page)

“Valdane’s chief bodyguard,” answered Willard. He added a dry comment. “Our esteemed financial boss is taking along a prize lot of strong-arm men to make sure nothing happens to his precious skin on this trip.”

Jeff Lewis looked Newton over with keen, probing eyes when they reached him. The dour producer did not seem displeased.

“You’ll do, for looks, Carson,” he grunted. “But remember, you not only have to look like Captain Future but act like him. Let’s see you draw your gun.”

“It won’t go off, will it?” Newton asked timidly.

He was deliberately presenting himself to them all as a timid, scary clerk, so that no one would dream of connecting him with his real self. For he was aware that Su Thuar was still staring at him.

A burst of derisive laughter came from the whole group at his frightened question. It assured him that his masquerade was succeeding.

“Some Captain Future!” muttered Jim Willard. “He’s about as much like the real thing as a mouse is like a lion.”

JEFF LEWIS patiently began to coach Curt Newton how to draw the atom-pistol, how to stand boldly erect, how to move quickly and softly.

“Try to think of yourself as the real Captain Future,” the producer said earnestly. “Now go through it again.”

Curt Newton went into an awkward crouch, and drew the atom-pistol so gingerly and clumsily that its barrel caught in his own belt.

He felt relieved when Su Thuar, who had been watching, followed Jon Valdane and Lura Lind out of the studio.

“Well, you’ll have time to practice on the way to Jupiter, our first location,” Lewis told him. “We’ll be starting in a few days now.”

They were interrupted by a loud, brassy voice. A man had forced his way across the busy studio to Jeff Lewis.

He was a swarthy Mercurian with a shock of bristling black hair, and bold black eyes. He addressed Lewis with conceited confidence.

“I understand you need an actor to play the part of Otho, the Futureman, in your new film,” he said loudly. “Well, I’m your man. I’m Rizo Thon, the greatest make-up artist you ever met. The only man who can play that android.”

“Nothing doing,” the producer said bluntly. “I’m hiring Ki Iquir for the part of Otho.”

“Ki Iquir? — that clumsy Martian ham?” scoffed Rizo Thon. “He couldn’t play this part in a million years. Wait till you see what I can do with it.”

The conceited Mercurian dived into one of the dressing-rooms, carrying his make-up kit with him. A few minutes later, he returned completely transformed. He was now a pale-skinned, lithe-looking man with a rubbery figure and sparkling, slanted green eyes in a hairless face.

“How this?” he demanded confidently. “Do I, or do I not, get the part?”

“Say, he is better than Ki Iquir,” declared Jim Willard in surprise. “In that make-up he’s the picture of Otho, the android.”

Curt Newton grinned to himself. Rizo Thon not only looked like Otho — he was Otho. He had simply taken off a disguise, instead of putting one on.

It had been Newton’s idea for getting Otho into the expedition. And it worked. Jeff Lewis was fascinated by the marvelous make-up, and hired “Rizo Thon” at once.

At the end of that day, Captain Future lurked in his dressing-room until the studio was deserted. Then Otho slipped into the room.

“So now we’re actors, chief,” grinned the impudent android. “I’m getting a kick out of this.”

“You’ll get a bigger kick when I tell you that Valdane’s right-hand man is Su Thuar, and that he’s going along on this party,” Curt Newton said in a grim voice.

Otho swore. “That cursed Venusian snake. I thought he was still in prison. Still, if he doesn’t suspect us, we’re all right.”

“He doesn’t, but he will the first slip we make,” warned Captain Future. “And the fact that Valdane has hired a criminal of Su Thuar’s caliber proves that there is a sinister purpose behind this whole expedition.”

“I never doubted it,” replied Otho. “But what about getting Grag and Simon into the expedition? Can we do it?”

“I haven’t had a chance yet to find out,” Captain Future said. He looked out. The studio was dark and deserted. “Come on, now’s our chance to get into the prop department and see about that.”

Unobserved, he and Otho made their way into the big property room where the sets and costumes for “The Ace of Space” were being assembled for transport to the
Perseus.

They soon found the two objects they sought. One was a big metal dummy that was outwardly a replica of Grag. It was an ingenious automaton that could be made to go through simple movements by means of interior motors controlled by a tiny switchboard on its back.

The other object was a similar replica of the Brain — a square, transparent box with a ‘face’ and lens-eyes like Simon Wright’s. Inside it was a plastic gray copy of a human brain.

THESE were the dummies of Grag and the Brain intended for use in the telepicture.

“They’re nearly identical copies, and that makes it easy,” Curt Newton said. “Tonight, Simon and Grag can slip in here and substitute themselves for these dummies —”

“And go along with the expedition, without anyone suspecting,” Otho finished. He chuckled. “The four Futuremen, playing themselves in a telepicture. Wouldn’t that producer’s eyes stick out, if he knew?”

“This is no lighthearted game we’re playing,” Curt Newton reminded him. “We’ll be in peril from the moment we leave Earth. That’s why I wouldn’t let Joan know anything about this mission.”

He glanced out into the studio. “No one’s around. Now is our chance to get these dummies out of here.”

Two hours later that night, he and Otho carried the two dummies with them into the guarded office of the System President, atop Government Tower.

Grag and Simon Wright were waiting for them there. And with them was an aging man in the uniform of the Planet Patrol, a white-haired, wrinkled veteran whose bleak old eyes lighted with pleasure.

“Cap’n Future,” he exclaimed. “I thought you were still out in deep space, till I got your message today.”

Marshal Ezra Gurney, old comrade of Futuremen, pumped Curt Newton’s hand. “Wait’ll Joan hears you’re back,” he chuckled.

“She mustn’t know, Ezra,” Curt Newton said earnestly. “We’re up to our necks in a dangerous business and I don’t want Joan tangled in it. And she’d insist on going with us, if she knew.”

“Goin’ where?” asked the old marshal keenly. “What’s up?”

Captain Future rapidly explained. Gurney’s weatherbeaten face lengthened as he heard.

“Just name what you want done,” said the old veteran promptly.

“I want you to take the
Comet
out to Styx and wait there for us,” Captain Future said. “We’ll need our ship.”

“But won’t the
Comet
be recognized, and give the show away?” asked Ezra Gurney.

“Paint it up to look like a battered little space-cruiser,” Curt Newton told him. “You can be an interplanetary prospector who heard of the diamond strike on Styx. Of course, you’ll have to get yourself temporarily suspended from the Patrol so that you can legally go there.”

Ezra Gurney nodded. “I can do all that. I’ll be waiting for you right in Planet Town, the foreign colony on Styx.”

Captain Future was hauling forward the two dummies which he and Otho had surreptitiously brought from the studio.

“These are the facsimiles of you and Grag, Simon,” he told the Brain. “All you have to do is slip in tonight and take their places. No one will know the difference, if you don’t move when anyone’s around.”

Grag stared scornfully at the lifeless metal facsimile of himself. “It’s disgusting that I have to impersonate a brainless automaton like this, but I suppose that I can do it.”

“Why, that automaton would make a better Futureman than you,” wisecracked Otho. “It only operates when you push its buttons.”

Grag appealed indignantly to Captain Future. “Chief, are you going to let that cockeyed plastic android insult me like that?”

“Cut your rockets, both of you,” Curt Newton ordered impatiently. “I’d forgotten about the little switchboard on the automaton’s back. We’ll have to put that on your back, Grag.”

He soon had attached the switchboard to the broad metal back of the big robot. “Its buttons aren’t connected to anything, of course. But when one of them is pushed, you must perform the appropriate action.”

He coached Grag until the robot could respond stiffly to the pressing of the buttons, just as the real automaton would have done.

“That’s good enough,” Newton said finally. “Now, Otho will take you and Simon over and slip you into the studio.”

“Sure, I’ll pretend Grag is a load of old iron I’m delivering,” cracked Otho, and then ducked the blow the irate robot aimed at him.

NEXT morning when “Chan Carson” reported at the telepicture studio, he glanced surreptitiously into the property room. The Brain was resting on a shelf, and Grag stood stiff and motionless in a corner.

No ordinary human being could have endured the long periods of immobility which these two must preserve to maintain their imposture. But the Brain often spent days brooding in immobile silence upon his scientific reveries. And Grag had not the nerves of an ordinary man.

Still, the robot muttered a complaint when Captain Future entered. “This playing dead is going to be monotonous, in time.”

“You’ll soon have a chance for movement and action,” Curt Newton reassured. “The expedition will soon be starting.”

Otho, made up again as Rizo Thon, darted into the property room excitedly. He brought dismaying news.

“Chief, I thought you were going to keep this whole business from Joan. Well, she’s here in the studio at the present moment.”

Curt Newton was thunderstruck. “Impossible! Joan doesn’t even know that we’re back yet from outer space.”

“Nevertheless, she’s here,” retorted the android. “She’s out there talking to Jeff Lewis now.”

Incredulously, Captain Future hurried out across the noisy, big studio. He found Jeff Lewis by the door of his office.

And with the telepicture producer was a figure at sight of which his heart leaped. An Earthgirl, slim in severe brown jacket and space-slacks, whose dark hair was bare and whose firm, lovely little face was flushed with emotion of some sort as she talked.

It was Joan Randall — the secret agent of the Planet Patrol who had been the gay, gallant comrade of the Futuremen on many adventures, and whom Curt Newton loved.

He wanted to stride forward and take her in his arms, but he forced down the impulse. He dared not let Joan Randall know of the hazardous enterprise on which they Futuremen were engaged. He knew only too well that she would insist on joining them, to her own grave peril.

Joan was speaking indignantly to the producer. “I won’t stand for it, Mr. Lewis! As soon as I heard about this picture you’re planning, I came here to protest against it. I won’t allow you to make a cheap, silly thriller about Captain Future.”

Jeff Lewis tried to soothe her. “It’ll be a great film, Miss Randall — a tribute to the Futuremen. There won’t be a thing in it that isn’t true. Why, we’re going to enormous risk and expense to film it in the identical scenes of their exploits.”

“The Ace of Space!” said Joan scornfully. “It’s absurd! Captain Future isn’t a glory-hunting story-hero. He’s a real man, the finest in the System, who has risked his life and endured every form of hardship to help the System peoples, to crush criminals preying on them and to push the frontiers of space further back.

“And you want to make money by glamorizing a man like that! I won’t permit it! The Futuremen can’t protest, for they’re still out in deep space, but I’m here and I’ll adopt every possible legal means to halt this silly picture.”

Curt Newton’s heart warmed to her staunch loyalty. And Jeff Lewis looked more worried. “You couldn’t legally stop the picture, because everything in it will be true,” the producer answered. “The story of ‘The Ace of Space’ is based on the epic struggle of the Futuremen with the Legion of Doom, and every incident of the plot really happened.”

Joan Randall was unappeased. “Unless I’m certain your story is going to stick to the truth, I’ll ask for an injunction against your making the film. It will at least delay the thing until Captain Future returns.”

“You mustn’t do that,” pleaded Jeff Lewis. “Our expedition is all ready to start. I have an idea. Come into my office and I think we can iron this out.”

They came face to face with Curt Newton as they turned around. Newton held his breath. He wore his ‘Chan Carson’ disguise. But he was not sure that it would be proof against Joan Randall’s keen glance.

SHE seemed startled by the sight of him. For just a moment gladness leaped into her brown eyes. Then it died away as she looked at him more closely.

“For a moment, I thought —” she began.

“You thought it was Captain Future?” Jeff Lewis finished for her, smiling. “It’s no wonder, for we picked him for the close resemblance. This is Chan Carson, who is to play Future in the film.”

Joan looked frowningly at ‘Chan Carson’. “You don’t look like a spaceman to me.”