THE FATAL THIRD
By THEODORE L. THOMAS
Peace had had its fling in the 21st century.
Now was the time for violence ... and rugged
Third Officer Webster ... and the miserable
Uranians who knew not what they unloosed.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories November 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Hanford Webster, third officer of the space ship Polaris, was afflicted with what would have been known in the twentieth century as a first class jinx. However, more about the jinx later. He wasn't thinking about that right now where he was on duty standing his trick in the astrogation chamber. The fleet was nearing its destination—Uranus. And then it happened.
One instant the ten-ship Earth fleet was streaking through space. The next moment nine of the ships broke up into small pieces, actually disintegrating there in his visi-plate before the bulging eyes of Mr. Webster. Twisted fragments of metal formed a cloud in space and began to fall in a gentle arc toward the planet Uranus some fifty thousand miles away. It was a hideous cloud, liberally sprinkled with frozen bits of human beings who had been the pride of the space fleet only a split second before.
The tenth ship almost didn't get away. It was flying lookout position four hundred miles behind and above the main fleet. Even so, it got a severe jolt—like smashing into a solid wall. If anybody except Third Officer Hanford Webster had been at the controls God only knew what would have happened.
Third Webster saw the whole thing in the visi-plate just as his own ship gave a mighty lurch. A lesser man might have blacked out under the shock. But Webster kept his faculties. Almost automatically he kicked the Polaris in a wide circle away from the tiny ship that had put out from Uranus. And at the same time he started to check the damage.
"First," he called over the intercom. "First."