By GEORGE A. WHITTINGTON

The Avenger was waging its deadliest fight—in a battlefield where weapons were useless.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

A lovely image shimmered on the visa-phone screen in Captain Jon McPartland's cabin. He stood before the instrument, drinking in the vision with his eyes, and feeling it race through his blood like a rocket wash. But his square jaw was set in a determined line, and his big hands were clenched hard.

The vision was Almira Denton, whose hair was a red-gold nebula, whose eyes were the cool green of Terra itself. To Jon McPartland, she was much more than just the daughter of his superior, Marshal Denton, Supreme Commander of all Solar System forces.

A memory of her soft lips had been with him through long weeks of dangerous outer planet patrol. Now, bringing his sleek battle cruiser, Avenger, homeward, he reached toward her over maximum visa-phone range. Jon tried to keep anger from his blue eyes as he answered her suggestion.

"Almira, I don't care if you are a full-blown psychologist now and aching to qualify for the Congress of Specialists! You can't make a case report out of me."

"Now, Jon, dear," pleaded the girl softly, "you know how father needs help with Congress. Our scientists make the laws—but they think of science, and neglect System Defenses. I could make them listen!"

There was persuasion in her throaty voice that convinced McPartland she could do exactly that. He knew, too, there was real cause for worry about System Defense. The planets had long been disarmed. Only the Congress of Specialists had power to maintain armed forces.

It had neglected bases and fighting units for years. The Space Patrol alone remained as a weapon for law and safety—and it took all the fighting heart of Marshal Denton to get purchase credits for that! If invaders ever struck—

Jon shuddered, his anger slipping away. "I know, Almira," he murmured, "I know. But why serve me up to the Specialists on a platter? You can psychoanalyze somebody else."

Almira shook her radiant head in dissent. "The Eligibility Committee only certifies candidates for election if they present outstanding work.

"An analysis of you would be outstanding because you're a popular hero, Jon. You've just destroyed a powerful alien ship—been promoted! I'd be certified. Earth would elect me to Congress!"

She stood before the visa-phone in the Denton home. Jon McPartland visualized her among the Specialists. He could see her slim, perfect figure in abbreviated formal dress, arresting attention like a shaft of warm sunshine in a musty vault. The Specialists would listen to her!

An emotion from below his consciousness pushed the realization aside. He was a man, and this was the woman he loved! "Almira," he said slowly, "I wouldn't mind if it were someone else—but I can't—I won't be just a guinea pig to you!"

The girl came closer to the screen, her eyes alight with eagerness. "Think of what it would mean to the Marshal, Jon—and to the Patrol! You'd be a perfect subject Jon. You're—well, impulsive, and—"

"Before you studied psychology," he flared, "you called me quick-tempered, maladjusted!"

McPartland felt the muscles bunch along his jaw, and drew anger from the memory of a long forgotten quarrel to force back a sick heaviness in his stomach. "Maybe I am all that, Almira—even atavistic, you said then. But I'm more than a specimen in a glass box."

He stopped suddenly. Almira's beautiful face had faded from the visa-phone screen. There had been no cut-off click from her instrument, but she was gone.

"Almira," Jon called sharply, "Almira." There was no answer. His screen remained grey and empty. The connection was broken.

McPartland's blue eyes narrowed, as he shot out a big hand to pick up the intra-ship phone. He jabbed the Radio Room button vigorously.

"Holdern speaking," came the Radio Officer's crisp, efficient voice.

"I was talking to Terra over visa-phone," snapped the Captain. "Did you cut me?"

"No, sir!" came the instant reply, with a shocked intake of breath. "The ether is yours, Captain," Holdern added, recovering his dramatic flair in the next second.

"Then why is my instrument dead?"

"My controls are in order, Sir," said the Radio Officer. "May I send a machinist's mate to look at the instrument?"

"Carry on, Mister," agreed McPartland, smiling suddenly. Best crew in the System, he told himself. His officers acted fast, without hesitation or alibi. "Report progress to the Control Room."

With a last disgusted frown at the visa-phone, McPartland left his cabin and walked through the narrow corridor to the Control Room. As he entered, Lieutenant-Commander Clemens turned from the view screen, his face achieving a masterpiece in worry.

"I was about to inform the Engineer, Sir," said the second-in-command, "The view screen is not functioning properly."

Engineer McTavish looked up from a chess game with Ray Control Officer Reynolds. Neither of the two had much to do in the way of duty, now that the patrol trip was ended. But the Control Room gave them an alert feeling to spice their chess board feud.

At the Lieutenant-Commander's words, McTavish rose with an alacrity that suggested a game not going to his liking. He reached the view screen with McPartland.

Most of the screen seemed normal. The three curved segments, representing joined fields of space extending around the sides and aft of the Avenger, showed the normal inky, star-studded black. But it was different with the forward screen. In the center, where the growing image of their green home planet should have been, was only blackness—unrelieved emptiness.

"From the looks of that, Mister McTavish," the Captain said sternly, "you have a few stalemated wires."

The Engineer's thin face flushed. His long nose twitched, and his grey eyes smouldered with professional indignation. "Begging your pardon, Sir," he objected. "If any coordinates had failed, the entire screen would blank out—and stay blanked, until I was notified. I would authorize partial operation only while the condition was being adjusted, Sir."

"Do you mean," asked Lieutenant-Commander Clemens, his voice dropping ominously, and one arm gesturing heavily at the empty blotch, "that—that—"

"That whatever you see is there," finished McTavish. "Or isn't there," he amended drily.

Captain McPartland saw Ray Control Officer Roberts get up quietly from before the chess board, and walk over to his station. Roberts, his round face impassive, brown eyes thoughtful, slid into the chair before his microphone, and ran long, slim fingers lovingly over his calculators.

The Engineer, too, at a nod from Jon moved over to his station. His grey eyes were soft with pride as they looked over the exact scale replica of the Avenger on the table before him. Within the transparent hull, vari-colored filaments glowed with the pulse of the ship, tracing out the perfect functioning of every mechanism.

McPartland looked at the other, then back at the view screen, and his full lips tightened. He could feel the tenseness of the three officers as he spoke into the intra-ship.

"Get me Terra Patrol Base on the ship visa-phone," he ordered Radio Officer Holdern.

"Sorry, Sir," was the crisp response, "I've been trying to raise Terra since the machinist's mate found your instrument in perfect order. Terra doesn't answer!"

Jon's blue eyes hardened. "Get Mars Patrol Base!" he said softly.

As he moved to the visa-phone, Clemens took over the intra-ship, plugging in his headset. His gloomy expression deepened when the instrument buzzed immediately.

"Navigation reports integrators acting improperly, Sir," he relayed. "Radar shows negative from direction of Terra."

"Impossible!" the Captain gasped, face suddenly wooden.

"Lieutenant Parek's exact comment, Sir," Clemens said sadly. He ran a nervous hand through thinning blond hair beneath his headset. His pale eyes were expectant.

"Tell Navigation to hold course," McPartland said calmly. Something in his voice super-charged the already taut atmosphere of the Control Room, bringing an eager smile to the face of Engineer McTavish.

As though in response, the visa-phone hummed, and its screen glowed. The image formed was a young officer, an officer with a wisp of blond mustache and a pale face forced into disciplined blankness by a straining will.

Some of the weariness left the younger man's haunted eyes as he saluted Captain McPartland. He spoke, his lips moving rapidly, but the words were gibberish.

"Radio, scramble for ship code," Lieutenant-Commander Clemens said into the intra-ship. He turned to the Captain. "I hope they have the right code, Sir."

"—extreme emergency, Sir," came the voice of the officer from Mars Base. "Deemed it advisable to use code."

"Very commendable, Mister," McPartland acknowledged, tersely. "My compliments to the Admiral, and may I speak to him at once."

"I'm sorry, Sir," said the other, "the Admiral is at Terra Base with the major fleet units. I am Lieutenant Browne, commanding."

"Commanding!" exploded Jon. "Then the base must be almost empty!"

"There is only a maintenance crew here," admitted the Lieutenant wearily, and added defensively, "It's the same at Jupiter Base, Sir.

"All ranking officers are at Terra Base with the battleships, to receive instruction in the use of new equipment the Specialists have perfected—You know, Captain, defense against mono-charge rays."

"Yes," groaned McPartland, "I know. The Specialists strip our Bases to make a big ceremony—of the only thing they've done for the Patrol in decades. And now—" He squared his broad shoulders, biting back the rest. "I have an urgent report. Who is ranking officer outside of Terra?"

"You are, Sir. I was about to radio you, when your call came through." Browne saluted again and drew himself up rigidly, as he went on:

"I beg to report, Captain, that we have lost radio contact with Terra Base. Telescopic observation reveals—" his voice faltered and the lines worked more deeply into his white face—"reveals, Sir, no trace of Terra, Luna, or the stars and planets normally visible—throughout a spherical area six-hundred-thousand miles in diameter."

The Lieutenant paused. McPartland said nothing. His square jaw was straining, as though to knot his face into the same hard fist as each of his great hands.

On the face of Engineer McTavish, the eager smile had frozen. Ray Control Officer Reynolds let his restless fingers fall motionless on the table before him. Clemens' small, regular features were swept blank by an apprehension too intense to be mirrored.

All of them strained to hear Browne's concluding words, in a voice that was suddenly a whisper: "Within that area is an absolute blackness we cannot penetrate by radio, radar, or telescope!"

"Thank you, Mister," the Captain acknowledged, "that checks with our own observation." He was not aware of his own voice, the cold, slow words could have been spoken by some one else. "Have you contacted Jupiter Base?"

"Yes, Sir," Lieutenant Browne answered eagerly, "they too agree."

"Very good," McPartland said. "Stand alert. I will contact you later." His hand reached for the switch.

Alarm leaped into Browne's face. "Captain! Sir! Are there no further orders? Four Patrol ships are on outer patrol—May I suggest—"

McPartland's full lips curved into a tight, mirthless smile, below the sudden flame in his blue eyes. "Mister, the Fleet is at Terra Base. If it can't—" He let the sentence stop unfinished, and added quietly: "This ship can handle more than those light cruisers."

"I beg your pardon, Sir," Lieutenant Browne murmured. A second later, his image faded from the screen.

From the corner of his eye, Jon saw the others watching the empty screen, as though waiting for the vanished officer to ask the question that was in their minds. Lieutenant-Commander Clemens, however, shook his head mournfully, anticipating his superior's next act, and stepping aside from the intra-ship.

The Captain reached for the instrument, punching down the lever for Navigation. "Lieutenant Parek," he said clearly, "take absolute solar bearings at once—plot a blind course for Terra Base."

He heard McTavish release his breath in a soft satisfied, whistle, even as Parek's monotonous tenor replied: "Bearings taken, Sir. Course plotted, Sir. Ready to proceed."

"Good man! He's ahead of us," exclaimed Engineer McTavish, his gray eyes dancing. "There's a brain behind that sing-song voice, after all! Begging your pardon, Sir," he added to Jon.

McPartland shot the Engineer a quick glance and nodded. The two of them shared their pride in the Avenger: McTavish in the ship itself, the Captain in the officers and crew as well. And both of them sensed, with Clemens and Roberts, that the whole, delicate, balanced entity, the Avenger, would find battle in the blackness ahead.

The Captain turned back to the intra-ship. "Proceed on course, Mister," he ordered. "Full speed ahead! Reduce to quarter-speed when we enter the area. Be prepared to operate ship in absolute lack of visibility!"

"Yes, Sir," the Navigation Officer acknowledged, laconically.

"Begging your pardon, Sir," McTavish said fiercely, as his commanding officer turned away from the phone, "absolute lack of visibility. We will have interior lights, Sir—I guarantee it—at least the emergency circuits."

Clemens turned his pale blue, worried eyes of the Engineer. "Light, Mister? Light, if we can see it! There's light in and beyond that—that place ahead, but we can't see it!" he said mournfully.

"Man, there's an interference screen," the Engineer snapped. "Once we're through it, we'll see what's going on." He jerked his lanky frame up from his chair suddenly, his thin nose twitching excitedly, and turned to McPartland. "The screen may play merry havoc with our machinery, Sir. Perhaps we should hit at full speed and let our momentum crash us through."

Ray Control Officer Reynolds answered the other's first assertion. "A spherical interference screen, Mister?" he asked quietly. "Six hundred thousand miles in diameter! We know how much equipment it takes for a protective screen around this ship—and that screen doesn't stop light or radio."

McTavish's grey eyes widened. "Man, that's right! It would be a fantastic job." But he insisted stubbornly: "As long as there's ether in there, we'll have light!"

"I don't believe there's ether in there," Jon interposed thoughtfully. "That's the only answer. Radar waves would be reflected from a screen of any sort—but our beams simply vanish."

Clemens gasped. "Then the fluorescent markings on our controls—we won't see them!" he said anxiously. "Light travels through ether—"

"Mister McTavish," McPartland interrupted curtly, "get your men and rig up a fixture for Lieutenant Parek. He'll have to work by touch—everything must be at his fingertips."

"Yes, Sir," the Engineer responded briskly. He glanced respectfully at his commanding officer; McTavish's thin face brightened as he saw the strength of the Captain's reasoning, and found himself with a job he could handle. He started out of the control room.

"There won't be much time, Mister," Jon reminded him.

"Begging your pardon, Sir, we won't need much."

With that, the officer was gone.

Again Jon smiled proudly, and turned to where his Lieutenant-Commander waited. "Mister Clemens, open all switches on the intra-phone, and order all stations switched open to the control room. You will relay any necessary messages between stations."

Clemens clamped on his headset, and his hands went over the switches rapidly. "Attention, all stations. All stations."

"You may inform the men of the situation and our plans," Jon added, quietly.

Ray Control Officer Reynolds caught his gaze, his large brown eyes thoughtful. "May I suggest, Sir, a fixture for the ray guns? I can operate my calculators, and know the results by sound—but the gunners—"

"Disintegrator rays," Jon reminded him, "travel through ether, as does light. So do your range-finder beams."

"Of course, Sir!" Reynolds said, his round face startled and dismayed. He ran his fingers over his keyboards slowly. "That means, Sir, that we—"

"We will be weaponless in there," McPartland finished grimly. "A lifeboat with an old fashioned powder cannon and explosive shells could finish us off." He laughed harshly. "If it could find us!"

The Forward view-screen was entirely blanked out. A line was rapidly moving along the side screens—a line that erased the stars and drew a portent for the men in the control room of the Avenger.

Jon McPartland's steady gaze flicked from that line back to the empty forward screen. His blue eyes burned into that emptiness. Somewhere in there was Terra Base—and at Terra Base was Almira Denton!

Whatever the force that had closed silently around the Earth, it had stilled the heart of the solar system. The planets waited, Jon knew, restlessly, breathlessly; for the whole intricate, interworld civilization drew its life from the great industries of Terra. Let those industries stop, or be taken over by enemies, and all the planets would be at the mercy of those enemies.

And the only military power which the Supreme System Congress could call upon was at Terra Base. McPartland imagined the great space battleships—cramped into overhaul cradles—the crews dispersed on leave. Slight chance to get them off in the blackness—even if crews could be assembled—even if they had any place to go!

But the Avenger had some place to go! McPartland's ship had a crew—and it could fight!

"We'll fight," Jon told himself savagely. "We'll win! And Almira—if—" He didn't finish even the thought. Instead he visualized the lovely oval of her face—with the green eyes set in like twin, glowing emeralds.

The sudden jarring blast of the forward rockets brought Jon's gaze around to the side screens. They were almost completely blanked out. Only a thin slice of normal space remained. They were entering the area, and Lieutenant Parek was braking.

"Man, that wasn't too soon," McTavish said tensely. Clemens said nothing, his face carefully set in a harried expression he would retain even when invisible. Reynolds looked up dejectedly from his desk, his hand resting protectively on the calculators that would be useless to them. The Captain moved over to the intra-ship, standing close beside his Lieutenant-Commander.

They waited silently. Jon was looking at the Engineer's eager smile, as the retarding rocket blasts died away. McTavish nodded, counting the drumming explosions from the stern and feeling the vibration of the ship with an intimate knowledge.

"We're at quarter speed, Sir," he said, as the Captain heard the Navigation Officer's clear, even voice over the intra-ship speaker:

"Quarter speed, Sir. On course."

The last two words fell into complete blackness. Jon felt the pupils of his eyes straining, opening for the least trace of light. There was none. He could hear the slow breathing of the others, and a few low exclamations through the open switches of the intra-ship.

"Carry on, Lieutenant," he ordered, and let his breath out of his lungs slowly. "Mister McTavish," he added, "here's something to add to your technical knowledge: electricity does not need ether—whether it travels around or within wires."

"Thank you, Sir," came the Engineer's ironic reply like a sound without origin in the well of blackness that closed in on Jon from every side. "I had reached the same conclusion, Sir."

"We are running on batteries, Sir," Clemens relayed from beside him. "The cyclotron has stopped functioning."

"The batteries will be enough, Sir," came the Engineer's voice. "I arranged an automatic out-in, Sir. I knew electrons couldn't bombard atoms without ether to travel through."

"Good work, Mister!" said McPartland.

"Thank you, Sir."