GODDESS OF THE MOON
A Complete Planet Novel
By JOHN MURRAY REYNOLDS
Death hid behind a smile in the white-and-gold
city of Gral-Thala. Gibson, Earth-spy off the
derelict strathoship, well knew his captive-fate.
But if he died, then the Good Green planet
perished from the Gray Death.... If he died, then
died Diana, fair Goddess of the Moon.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Tokyo-to-New York Stratholiner swept down toward the ManhattanMunicipal Airport early on a winter evening, with the port-holesgleaming all along the 300-foot length of her polished steel body.Rockets cut off well above the city in accordance with the strictAmerican traffic regulations, she came down with half a dozen bigprops spinning under the drive of her powerful Diesel auxiliaries. Adozen whirling helicopters had been upthrust to take the strain. Shecame down to a city that lay murmurous and uneasy under the greatestthreat that mankind had ever faced—the threat of the Gray Death!
A band was playing in the liner's saloon, and passengers in thesmoking-room were hurriedly gulping down the last of their drinks.There was a forced and unnatural gaiety on board. Most of thepassengers had taken more than a few drinks on the way across fromTokyo—for the news of the spread of the Gray Death was ominous. Itis hard to retain peace of mind when a strange new epidemic ragesunchecked from Alaska to Cape Horn and from Nova Zembla to New Zealand.Men and women were dying like flies, and all the medical science ofthis Twenty-fourth Century seemed helpless before the deadly plague.
It was the steady vibration of the Diesels that brought Larry Gibsonback to an awareness of his surroundings. Their resonant hum wasdistinctly different from the pounding blast of the rockets, and anyexperienced stratho-pilot could tell the difference in a second. Larrytossed off the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back ofan unsteady hand. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up, swayingas he tried to hold his balance on the slightly tilted floor of thedescending liner. A man at the next table glanced curiously up at him.
"Guess we're landing, friend," he said. "Y'know, they say that thereare a thousand deaths a day here in New York City now. They're digginggraves in the cemeteries with electric shovels, I understand."
"Life," said Larry with alcoholic gravity, "is cheap. Too cheap.One hundred lives equals a man's career. It's all been worked outmathematically. Good evening."
Larry left the third-class bar where he had been sitting, and walkedslowly along the corridor. Mechanically he turned the collar of hisfrayed coat up around his neck and pulled the brim of his wide hat welldown over his eyes. There was always the possibility that someone wouldrecognize him, and in these past months he had learned to keep in theshadowy byways of life. The time would come when men would forget thatan unlucky person named Larry Gibson had ever existed, but in this year2332 there were still plenty of people who would recognize his face.
Gibson was not traveling in the first-class section of the big liner,in those luxurious quarters built into the giant wings to which hisrank had once given him free entry. Back in the days when he had beenChief Pilot of all the Strathofleet he could ride there as a matterof course. Now he could not afford it. He coul