The Greatest SF Classics of Stanley G. Weinbaum. Stanley G. Weinbaum

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      Flight

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      Connor had an inspiration. The deflecting force must emanate from the glittering buttons on the Urbans' left arms. Moreover, the field must be projected only before the Urban soldiers, else they'd not be able to move their own weapons. Springing to a fallen machine–gun, he righted it, spun it far to the left so as to enfilade the Urbans, to strike them from the side.

      He pulled the trigger—let out a yell of fierce joy as a dozen foemen toppled. He tried to shout his discovery to the others, but none heeded, and anyhow the Urbans could counter it by a slight shift of formation. So grimly he cut as wide a gap as he could.

      The beams flashed. Steeling himself to the agony of the shock, he bore it unflinchingly. When it had passed, the Weed army was in flight. He muttered a vicious curse

      d jerked a groaning man on the ground beside him to his feet.

      "You're still alive, you sheep!" he snarled. "Get up and carry that girl!" He gestured at the prostrate Maris.

      The slope was clearing. Only half a hundred Weeds lay twisting on the grass, or were staggering painfully erect. Connor glared at the slowly advancing Urbans, faced them for a moment disdainfully, then turned to follow the flying Weeds. Halfway across the grounds he paused, seized an abandoned rifle, and dropped to his knee.

      In a gesture of utter defiance, he took careful aim at the two figures on the tower balcony five hundred feet above. He pressed the trigger. Ten shots spat out in quick succession. Windows splintered above the figures, below, to right and left. Tom Connor swore again as he realized that these, too, were protected. Then he gritted his teeth as the ionic beam swept him once more.

      When it ceased, he fled, to mingle with the last of the retreating Weed forces. They were trickling through, over, and around that traffic jam that would take heroic efforts to untangle.

      The Revolution was over. No man could now re–organize that flying mob. Connor thrust his way through the mass of panic–stricken humanity until he reached the car in which Jan and Evanie were already waiting.

      Without a word Jan swung the car hastily about, for the traffic snarl was reaching even as far away as he had parked. Evanie dropped, her head on Connor's shoulder, weeping quietly.

      "That's a hell of a revolution!" he grunted. "Twenty minutes and it's over!"

      The car swept through the semi–dusk of the ground level of Palace Avenue to the point where the ramp curved about the base of the Atlas Building. There Jan guided it into the sunlight of the upper tier. In the after–noon glare his face was worn and haggard. Evanie, her spell of weeping over, was pallid and expressionless, like a statue in ivory.

      "Won't we be stopped?" Connor asked, as Jan put on, speed.

      "They'll try," said Jan. "They'll block all of the Hundred Bridges. I hope we get across first. We can only hope, because they can see every move we make, of course. There are scanners on every street. We may be watched from the Palace now."

      The bridge over which they had come into the city loomed before them. In a moment they were over the canal and into Urbs Minor, where ten million people still moved about their occupations in utter ignorance of the revolution and its outcome.

      The colossal buildings of Greater Urbs receded and took on the blue hue of distance, and Lesser Urbs slipped rapidly by them. It was not until they had surmounted the ridge and dropped into Kaatskill that Jan gave any evidence of relaxing. There he drew a deep breath.

      "Respite!" he murmured gloomily. "There are no scanners here, at least."

      "What's to be done now?" asked Connor.

      "Heaven knows! We'll be hunted, of course—everybody who was in it. But in Montmerci's rebellion the Master punished only one—Montmerci himself; the leader."

      "Evanie's grandfather."

      "Yes. That may weigh against her."

      "This damned revolution was doomed from the start!" declared Connor irritably. "We hadn't enough organization, nor good enough weapons, nor an effective plan—nothing! And having lost the advantage of surprise, we had no chance at all."

      "Don't!" Evanie murmured wearily. "We know that now."

      "I knew it the whole time," he retorted. "By the way, Jan—those Paige deflectors of theirs. Do you know how they work?"

      "Of course." Jan's voice was as weary as Evanie's. "It's just an inductive field. And metal passing through it had eddy currents induced in it."

      Simple enough, mused Connor. He'd seen the old experiment of the aluminum ring tossed by eddy currents from the pole of an alternating current magnet. But he asked in surprise:

      "Against such velocities?"

      "Yes. The greater the velocity, the stronger the eddy currents. The bullet's speed helps to deflect it."

      "Did you know of these deflectors before?" snapped Connor.

      "Of course. But projectile weapons haven't been used for so long—how could I dream he'd know of our rifles and resurrect the deflectors?"

      "You should have anticipated the possibility. Why, we could have used—" He broke off. Recriminations were useless now. "Never mind. Tell me about the ionic beam, Jan."

      "It's just two parallel beams of highly actinic light, like gamma rays. They ionize the air they pass through. The ionized air is a conductor. There's an atomic generator in the handles of the beam–pistols, and it shoots an electric charge along the beams. And when your body closes the circuit between them—Lord! They didn't use a killing potential, or we'd have been burned to a crisp. I still ache from that agony!"

      "Evanie stood up to it," Connor remarked.

      "Just once," murmured the girl. "A second time—Oh, I'd have died!"

      It struck Connor that this delicate, small–boned, nervous race must be more sensitive, less inured to pain, than himself. He had stood the shock with little difficulty.

      "You're lucky you weren't touched," said Jan.

      Connor snorted. "I was touched three times—the third time by ten beams! If you'd listened to me we could have won the dog–fight anyway. I blew a dozen Urbans down by firing from the side."

      "You СКАЧАТЬ