War-Lords of the Moon By LINTON DAVIES Bruce Ross, on the Earth-Moon run, asked a simple question, "How are the stars behaving, Harry?" But Harrell Moore could only stare at him in horror. For the stars had run amok--cosmic engines of destruction in the hands of the twisted genius of the Moon! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1939. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A faint quiver ran through the great hull of the rocket ship, and passed. The harsh drumming of her motors died to a singing drone. Flight-Commander Bruce Ross nodded absently. The ship had shaken off the Earth-drag, and the speed indicator climbed fast. Eleven, twelve hundred miles an hour, the flagship of the rocket-ship fleet sped on its way to the Moon. He moved to the forward telescope at the side of the control cabin and squinted at their objective. The pale circular bulk of the Moon loomed larger than when he had last observed it. He twisted to look through the rear telescope, and saw with satisfaction that the other seven ships of his fleet were following in echelon, each a mile and somewhat to the right of the one before it. Ross grinned with pleasure. It wasn't his first trip to the Moon, but on that earlier occasion, when Magnus, King of the Moon People, had pledged a truce with the Earth's Council of Seven, he had commanded only the flagship. Now he had his own flagship, larger and more powerful than that outmoded rocket ship of five years ago, and seven more fighting ships besides. He strolled over to stand behind his navigator, plump, bespectacled Harrell Moore, who was squinting strainedly through the star-scope. "How are the stars behaving, Harry?" Moore's forehead was corrugated with concern. Without taking his eye from the scope he muttered softly, "Something funny going on, Bruce." He moved back to let his chief step to the eye-piece. But before the flight-commander could take the seat a sliding door opened with a bang. The two turned, startled. In the opening swayed a white-faced clerk. "Sir," he gasped, "there's trouble with communications!" "Well?" snapped Ross. The clerk brushed sweat off his brow. "The ray-type machine's gone dead, sir, and the ray-phone's crippled. We get only a weak muffled voice from the Council of Seven Headquarters!" "How about the blinkers from the other ships?" snapped Ross. "Blinkers are working, sir--" The clerk stopped short as Ross jumped to the rear of the control room. "Jorgens!" snapped Ross. "Signal each ship, and ask if they've--they can get Seven Headquarters on the ray-type!"