THE SWORD OF JOHNNY DAMOKLES By HUGH FRAZIER PARKER The mad dreams of a crazed dictator had reached from the past and taken root in the dread Tsom Clan on Neptune, threatening the peaceful existence of a dozen worlds. There was little Timmy Gordon and Johnny Damokles could do--for they were prisoners of the Tsom, working on the monster bomb that was to signal the invasion. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A cloudlet of dust whirled across Spaceport X and rose in the thin Callistonian air to beat against the window. The sound was gritty, abrasive. It hadn't rained for weeks, and the sky, clear of clouds, hovered blacker than Holofernes' soul. Jupiter touched the horizon. And far away, Neptune's pale blue light glowed softly. Timmy Gordon walked to the window. "I've never seen old Neptune so clear before," he said. "And say, Johnny, where'd they ever get a name like that for a planet? Neptune! What's it mean?" Johnny Damokles laid one fat, hairy hand on the bar. He wiped a glass with his apron and smiled. "Sure, boss," he said. "All the time you talking space, eating space. What's a good if you don't know why planets get name?" "Do you, chum?" "Sure t'ing, boss. Greeks are all knowings about Neptune." "Well?" "She's this way. Neptune are a old Greek god, and he are importants for rule the ocean. So what happens?" "I'll bite, Johnny." "A fellows finds it this planet. She ain't got a names and deesa fellows t'ink she's all watery. So they name her for Mister Neptune. Dem times long ago ... two t'ousand year ... t'ree t'ousand. What them hells!" "Aw for cripe's sake shut up! You dam' Greeks!" Timmy and Damokles turned. Shelton Thurner, head pilot of the Jup-Cal Line was sitting alone at a side table. He was drunk, very drunk, and a wisp of black hair hung over his forehead. "Shut up!" he screamed, "talkin' about the past! Dam' dumb Greek dishwasher! Neptune was discovered 900 years ago, aroun' 1830 ... and who in hell cares what it's named ... excep' a Greek." Thurner staggered to his feet. Liquor spilled. For a little man, Johnny Damokles was both fat and fast. One hand hit the bar, he vaulted it, and faced Thurner. "What's for you cuss Greek? She are good braves people...." "I told you to shut up," said Thurner. He planted a big hand in Johnny Damokles' face and shoved. Johnny fell, and Thurner kicked him brutally in the side. Then the room hit Thurner smack on the jaw. "Want some more?" asked Timmy. He stared down at the hulking pilot, as Thurner rolled over and rubbed his face. "Want another?" Timmy repeated. The door opened, and the Director of Spaceport Operations stood framed in its classic Callistonian marble columns.