Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  INTRODUCTION

  THE ULTIMATE WEAPON

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Silverberg.

  Introduction copyright © 2019 by Robert Silverberg.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  INTRODUCTION

  Randall Garrett and I had been hired early in 1956 to do short stories for Bill Hamling’s two magazines; the lead novellas for each issue were the domain of the veteran pulp writers Edmond Hamilton and Dwight V. Swain, and, occasionally, Milton Lesser or Paul W. Fairman, and our monthly package of material filled the pages behind them. But one of the regulars must have missed his novella deadline in June, 1956, because my records show that I produced an 18,000-worder for Hamling that month, to which I gave the sort of Edmond-Hamiltonian title that I thought a space-opera novella ought to have: “Starlords of Shanador.” Perhaps that sounded too much like a Hamilton title to Hamling, because when he published it in the January, 1957 issue of Imaginative Tales he called it “The Ultimate Weapon,” and, though I had put my own name on the manuscript, he stuck the byline of “S.M. Tenneshaw” on it. That was as good as publishing it anonymously, because “Tenneshaw” had begun life as a pseudonym in 1947 for a story in the Ziff-Davis pulp magazine Fantastic Adventures, true authorship now unknown, and had been used about a dozen times in the Ziff-Davis pulps by an assortment of writers, including Milton Lesser, Chester S. Geier, and, perhaps, Hamling himself. When he started his own magazines in 1951, Hamling had brought a lot of the Ziff-Davis house names over with him, and during the years that followed he ran five “Tenneshaw” stories that had been written by Garrett, Silverberg, or Garrett and Silverberg in collaboration, along with ten others the authorship of which remains unknown to this day.

  Hamling’s idea in Imagination and Imaginative Tales was to revive the classic pulp formula, as old as fiction itself, that was already becoming obsolete in the late 1950s: a sympathetic protagonist struggles against insuperable obstacles, valiantly faces defeat, and, after coming right to the edge of the abyss, eventually triumphs against all odds. John W. Campbell, when he took over Astounding Science Fiction in 1937, had rebelled against that formula and had found a group of sophisticated new writers—Robert A. Heinlein, L. Sprague de Camp, Theodore Sturgeon, Fritz Leiber, Isaac Asimov, and many more—to provide a kind of science fiction that was richer in characterization, more complex in concept, altogether more adult. Such postwar magazines as Horace Gold’s Galaxy and the Fantasy & Science Fiction of Anthony Boucher and J. Francis McComas had followed Campbell’s path. So did Hamling, when he began his magazines, but the sales figures were disappointing, and so, reasoning that there was a younger audience still wanting to be served, had pivoted back to the action-oriented science fiction that Amazing and Fantastic, where he had learned the editorial trade, were still providing.

  So I started “Starlords of Shanador” in classic pulp mode, opening with my protagonist’s name, showing that he was in big trouble, and providing a setting: “Laird Hammill raced frantically through the cold night of Denerix, largest world of the Shanador system. He was somewhere on a dark, vast plain outside the city of Lombrosa, and a half mile behind him lay the useless hulk of his burned-out landcar.” The story continues that way, slam and bang and biff and pow, displaying my precocious command of pulp formulas right to the curtain line (“We’ve won, darling....”) It moves along very nicely, I think. And in its portrayal of a race of intelligent beings that dwell in the hearts of stars I touch on a theme that I would return to, decades later, in my novel Starborne.

  THE ULTIMATE WEAPON

  Laird Hammill raced frantically through the cold night of Denerix, largest world of the Shanador system. He was somewhere on a dark, vast plain outside the city of Lombrosa, and a half mile behind him lay

  the useless hulk of his burned-out landcar.

  The only light was the wide band of bright stars that was the galaxy of Shanador, glittering overhead; the only sound, the steady tunk-tunk of the radar-nosed pursuit robots creeping inexorably up from behind him. Desperately, Laird Hammill pounded on, clinging to the one wild hope that he would be able to avoid pursuers from the city and return safely to the scoutship he had hidden somewhere to the east.

  If they caught him, it meant death. The penalty for spying is a universal constant.

  As he ran, he heard the tiny beeping of his chest-radio. The transistors in his uniform pocket were picking up some sort of message from the main Earth fleet, hovering ten thousand light-years from Shanador. Cursing annoyedly, Hammill thumbed the transmitter without breaking stride.

  “This is Hammill,” he muttered. “Come in, I read you. Over.”

  He gasped for breath. It wasn’t easy to carry on a radio conversation while running for your life through pitch-black alien territory.

  “Hammill, this is Flagship Gifford. Haven’t heard from you in three days. What’s up? Over.”

  “Afraid I’m a lousy spy,” Hammill grunted. “Right now—uh—I’m in the process of being run ragged by a team of Denerixian pursuit-robots. I’ll report later, if I live through it. Over and out.”

  “Hammill!” yelled the tinny voice. “Come in, Hammill!”

  “Sorry, Gifford. I don’t have time to chat now.” He jabbed the transmitter off and slowed to catch his breath and survey the situation.

  Somewhere behind him, a team of tin bloodhounds was sniffing his trail, leading along the very efficient police corps of the Starlord of Denerix. The dim glow of the city of Lombrosa was just barely visible on the distant horizon.

  Ahead of him, on the far side of this damned plain, was his scout-ship. But he wasn’t going to get there. He knew that, feeling a dull inexorability that he would be caught and executed as a spy.

  The hideous sound of the pursuit-robots grew louder. Hammill grabbed for breath and started running again. He wondered how long his strength was going to hold out. The torture-chambers of the Starlord of Denerix had a well-earned reputation in the Shanador system, and Hammill wasn’t too keen on getting a first-hand opinion.

  As he thought it over, he hadn’t done a very good job. He had been on Denerix a little less than a week, acting as advance-guard for the great Terran fleet that was massing to crush the Shanador Starlords.

  Hammill had been assigned to scout Starlord bases, probe for weak spots, look for chinks in the mighty network of force the Starlords had erected around their system. It would be sheer suicide for the fleet to attempt to attack blindly; Hammill was vital. And Hammill had failed.

  His first port of call had been the city of Lombrosa, capital of Denerix, which was one of the key-worlds of the Shanador system. He had planned to infiltrate among the hired mercenaries that formed the bulk of the local encampment, find out what was going on in the system, where the troop deployment was heaviest, where the weak worlds were. Then, he would relay the information back to the waiting fleet, and they would strike.

  Shanador had to be crushed. The confederacy of alien despots was known to be gathering its might for an assault on the Earth Federation itself, and in interstellar warfare it was a matter of get the first jump or none at all. Second best in an interstellar conflict was crushing defeat; there could be only one winner.

  When would Shanador strike? Earth didn’t know. There was talk of a mysterious weapon the Starlords were perfecting, a deadly mental projector whose properties were vague and terrifying; there were all kinds of rumors. The time had come to rid the universe of the Starlords, that was clear.

  But first I have to get out of here alive, Laird Hammill thought grimly. He felt as if he’d been running all night, but it had only been a little over an hour since his identity had accidentally been discovered by a drunken, over-familiar giant of an infantryman. Hammill had grabbed the first landcar in sight and had raced out into the bleak, rock-studded flatlands that separated Lombrosa from the reconnoitre-point where he had hidden his scoutship. His object had been to get off Denerix as fast as possible.

  He’d had a ten-minute head start, no more. Alarms had wailed dismally in the whistling-cold night, and the pursuers had set out after him. And now—

  He couldn’t run forever. The landcar had overloaded—he had not really known how to operate it—and its turbines had flared into a bright blue flash of radiance and choked off. Now he was on foot, with the hunters coming closer every moment.

  Above, the Shanador system spread itself over the sky like a soft, lovely veil, a sprinkling of gold and blue and red and brilliant white. Under any other circumstances it might have been a really beautiful sight—but Hammill didn’t appreciate the grandeurs of the system just now. Gasping for breath, he raced onward, pulling one numbing leg after the other.

  Suddenly, there was a deafening roar and the sky seemed to rain violet lightning. The endless plain was bright as day in the illumination of the flare.

  “Stop running, Earthman,” a cold, dry voice said from behind him. This was the end of the road, then. He couldn’t run any further.

  By the light of the flare, Hammill glanced ahead and saw that they had run him right into a pocket-ended valley that terminated in a closed rut which folded around him neatly. There wasn’t any place further to run to; they had bided their time, the devils, until they had him caught with nowhere to hide.

  He drew his blaster and planted himself at th e back end of the pocket, facing his antagonists.

  “Come and get me!” he shouted defiantly.

  There were seven of them, and three pursuit-robots. He caught a good glimpse of them in the dying light of the flare.

  The men were Denerixians, all of them armed. One wore the dazzling cloak and tunic of the nobility, an outfit coruscating with encrusted gems and gleaming with the threads of platinum mesh sown in the cloth. The others wore the dull black uniforms of the Starlord’s private police.

  The three pursuit-robots were hunkered down against the ground like chromium-snouted hogs, their sensitive olfactory antennae quivering disgustingly at his spoor. They looked uglier than the barrels of seven blasters that were pointed at him.

  The nobleman spoke. “Come out of there, Earthman. Don’t try to fight.”

  “Suppose you make me come out,” Hammill snapped. He squeezed the stud of his blaster and a rolling beam of fire spurted out, lighting up the sky the way the flare had done. He saw the charge splash in the air fruitlessly, three feet in front of the foremost of the radar-snouted robots.

  “That was foolish, Hammill,” the cold voice said. “We’re screened against your little toy, so don’t waste your energy or our time.”

  Without replying, Hammill fired, adjusting his aim for greater depth. The same thing happened again. They were screened after all. He was neatly penned in.

  Cursing, he holstered the useless blaster and started to walk forward. Blackness was like a cloak around him, but he knew the sharp-eyed Denerixians could probably pick him out easily. Still, what did it matter?

  He summoned what little strength he had left and started to run straight at them. They weren’t screened against him, and he wanted to vent some of his hatred before they gave him the inevitable coup-de-grace. Besides, a suicide charge like this might insure a quick death, instead of the lingering nightmare of the Starlord’s torture chambers.

  They weren’t firing. He came close enough to see the gleaming butts of their blasters, and they didn’t fire. He reached the nearest pursuit-robot and launched a vicious kick at its quivering snout. It recoiled and scurried away.

  “All right. Stop right there,” the noble ordered.

  “I’m going to keep on coming,” Hammill yelled. “You’ll have to kill me.”

  He leaped over the other two pursuit-robots and caught up with the foremost Denerixian, waiting for the flash of radiance that would leave him a charred hulk on the plain. It didn’t come.

  “Guns down!” he heard the noble say. His fist crashed solidly into the first man’s stomach, and he followed with a roundhouse punch that knocked the man backward. Still no blast.

  “What are you waiting for?” he demanded wildly. “Why don’t you shoot?”

  He saw the level smile on the noble’s handsome, aristocratic face. “It’s messy,” he said. “Besides, we don’t want to kill you.”

  Half-mad with rage, Hammill bunched his muscles for an assault on the grinning nobleman. But as he sprang, he saw the bejeweled dandy casually adjust his blaster to wide-beam stunning-force, and the bolt caught him in mid-leap.

  The soft moist soil was like a warm bed as he fell face-first.

  * * * *

  Hammill felt as though his head had been filled with lightning— lightning which seemed to flicker about inside his skull and strike with shattering force every few seconds.

  As the noise within his mind seemed to diminish, he opened his eyes—just a little.

  “Awake, Earthling?”

  It was a soft voice, but it carried undertones of vicious threat.

  It was the nobleman. Still playing dead, Hammill tried to recall what had happened. When it finally made sense, he thought: I’m still alive, then. Why?

  It was, to say the least, unusual. The Starlords of Shanador, despite their seeming enmity towards each other, all abided by the same rules: Kill the enemy!

  “Don’t be stubborn, Earthling,” said the arrogant voice. “I know you’re awake.”

  “Shall I wake him, Lord Kleyne?” said a harsh voice. “No. He’ll open his eyes.”

  Hammill opened his eyes slowly. He was lying supine on a table— an operating table—with his arms and legs held tight by invisible force clamps. The rubbery feeling force fields held him tightly without cutting off circulation.

  But he was still alive. And as long as he was alive, he had a chance. He turned his head as far as the force clamps would allow and looked the Starlord in the face. “Well, my lord; you’ve become lax—or are you just a little late in killing me?”

  The nobleman’s eyes narrowed; his shoulders moved a little, moving the jeweled robe slightly. A faint grin crossed his face. “I may—just may not kill you.”

  Hammill flicked a suspicious glance at the noble. “What do you mean by that?”

  Lord Kleyne smiled pleasantly, but ignored the question. He crossed the room, passing out of Hammill’s range of vision, and his voice drifted through the room in a low murmur, as he spoke to someone Hammill had not seen.

  Beads of sweat rolled down Hammill’s face as he let his eyes rove over the room he was in. It was a high, vaulting chamber with clammy-looking stone walls and complex groining supporting the roof; a square-hewn window cut roughly into the rock allowed a single beam of light to enter, while glowing alpha-bulbs cast a grim illumination over the scene. It wasn’t a pleasant room.

  Hammill could see three black-clad Denerixian guards standing impassively nearby, watching him without the faintest sign of interest.

  Hanging from one wall, there was a thick, spike-studded knout, along whose corded length ran a gleaming length of wire that indicated that it was electrified. It was the only torture implement in the room, but it was enough.

  After a few moments, Lord Kleyne returned.

  Hammill had made up his mind by then; if there was any way out, he’d take it. The Starlords hadn’t put off killing him for no reason at all, therefore, he wasn’t going to be killed—at least not immediately.

  The question was: why had his life been spared? If the Starlord had any sense at all, he should have killed the Earthman long ago. But he hadn’t; therefore—

  The Starlord loomed over him, his bejewelled clothing glittering oddly in the glow from the alpha-bulbs. Again the queer smile crossed his face. “I have a use for you.” He glanced up at one of the guards. “Cut the lights.”

  The guard reached out and touched a panel on the nearby wall. Instantly, the alpha-bulbs died into blackness, leaving Lord Kleyne illuminated only by the single lamp above the operating table.

  Hammill knew what was coming and braced his mind for the onslaught.

  The Starlord’s eyes seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. Hammill could feel the creeping, probing tentacles of alien thought creep into his own mind. For the first time, he realized that the Starlords who ruled a galaxy, although they looked like men, were not human!

  Hammill had been trained in blocking off his mind against telepathic probing. He set up the block almost instantly, less than a millisecond after the Starlord had started to probe. But the block was like a wall made of paper; with a vicious stab, the Starlord’s mental probes lanced through Hammill’s mind block as though it had never been. There was a brilliant flare of thought energy in the infra-levels of the mind, and Hammill’s defenses collapsed.

  Hammill wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. Lord Kleyne’s mind held his own in a grip of steel—and stronger than steel. There was no fighting that driving, searing beam of thought energy as it lanced through and through Hammill’s very being.

  As the psychic pain built up, Hammill could stand it no longer. Less than a tenth of a second after the Starlord had begun the mental onslaught of the Earthman’s mind, Hammill faded into unconsciousness…

  * * * *

  Laird Hammill ran fingers smoothly over the control studs of the fast little speedster, his eyes watching the growing star in the forward plate. Within less than an hour, he would be on Rhodanas, after five days of ultra-fast travel across intergalactic emptiness.

  Five days since he had left—

  Left where?

  For the first time in five days, he realized how foggy his mind had been. His brain seemed fuzzy, as though he had been doing things that—

 

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