“Breakfast.” With one hand Charlie scooped a fried egg out of a pan, placed it on a slice of bread, while with the other hand he broke another egg into the grease. He slapped a second slice of bread over the egg and handed the sandwich to Don.
Don accepted it and took a large bite before replying, “Thanks. But what are they running the sirens for?”
“Fighting. Listen.”
From somewhere in the distance came the muted WhaHoom! of an explosion; cutting through the end of it and much nearer was the dry sibilance of a needle beam. Mixed with the fog drifting in the window was a sharp smell of wood burning. “Say!” Don exclaimed, his voice high, “they really did it.” Automatically, his mind no longer on food, his jaws clamped down on the sandwich.
Charlie grunted. Don went on, “We ought to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
Don had no answer for that. He finished the sandwich while still watching out the window. The smell of smoke grew stronger. A half squad of men showed up at the end of the alley, moving at a dog trot. “Look! Those aren’t our uniforms!”
“Of course not.”
The group paused at the foot of the street, then three men detached themselves and came down the alley, stopping at each door to pound on it. “Outside! Wake up in there—outside, everybody!” Two of them reached the Two Worlds Dining Room; one of them kicked on the door. It came open. “Outside! We’re going to set fire to the place.”
The man who had spoken was wearing a mottled green uniform with two chevrons; in his hands was a Reynolds one-man gun and on his back the power pack that served it. He looked around. “Say, this is a break!” He turned to the other. “Joe, keep an eye out for the lieutenant.” He looked back at Old Charlie. “You, Jack—scramble up about a dozen eggs. Make it snappy—we got to burn this place right away.”
Don was caught flat-footed, could think of nothing to do or say. A Reynolds gun brooks no argument. Charlie appeared to feel the same way for he turned back to the range as if to comply.
Then he turned again toward the soldier and in his hand was his cleaver. Don could hardly follow what happened—a flash of blue steel through the air, a meaty, butcher-shop sound, and the cleaver was buried almost to its handle in the soldier’s breastbone.
He uttered no cry; he simply looked mildly surprised, then squatted slowly where he stood, his hands still clasping the gun. When he reached the floor, his head bowed forward and the gun slipped from his grasp.
While this went on the other soldier stood still, his own gun at the ready. When his petty officer dropped his gun it seemed to act as a signal to him; he raised his own gun and shot Charlie full in the face. He swung and trained his gun on Don. Don found himself staring into the dark cavity of the projector.
XI
“You Could Go Back To Earth—”
THEY stayed that way for three heart beats…then the soldier lowered his weapon about an inch and rapped out, “Outside! Fast!”
Don looked at the gun; the soldier gestured with it. Don went outside. His heart was raging; he wanted to kill this soldier who had killed Old Charlie. It meant nothing to him that his boss had been killed strictly in accordance with the usages of warfare; Don was in no frame of mind to juggle legalisms. But he was naked against an overpowering weapon; he obeyed. Even as he left the soldier was fanning out with the Reynolds gun; Don heard the hiss as the beam struck dry wood.
The soldier put the torch to the building wastefully; it seemed almost to explode. It was burning in a dozen places as soon as Don was out the door. The soldier jumped out behind him and prodded him in the seat with the hot projector. “Get moving! Up the street.” Don broke into a trot, ran out the alley and into Buchanan Street.
The street was filled with people, and green-suited soldiers were herding them uptown. Buildings were burning on both sides of the street; the invaders were destroying the whole city but giving the inhabitants some chance to escape the holocaust. As a part of a faceless mob Don found himself being pushed along and then forced into a side street which was not yet burning. Presently they were beyond the town but the road continued; Don had never been out in this direction but he learned from the talk around him where they were headed—out East Spit.
And into the fenced camp which the new government had used for enemy aliens. Most of the crowd seemed too stunned to care. Somewhere near Don a woman was screaming, her voice rising and falling like a siren.
The camp was crowded to more than ten times its capacity. The camp buildings did not provide standing room; even outdoors the colonists were elbow to elbow. The guards simply shoved them inside and ignored them; they stood there or milled around, while the soft gray ashes of their former homes drifted down on them from the misty sky.
Don had regained his grip on himself during the march out to the camp. Once inside, he tried to find Isobel Costello. He threaded his way through the crowd, searching, asking, peering at faces. More than once he thought he had found her, only to be disappointed—nor did he find her father. Several times he talked to persons who thought they had seen her; each time the clue failed to lead him to her. He began to have waking nightmares of his impetuous young friend dead in the fire, or lying in an alley with a hole in her head.
He was stopped in his weary search by an iron voice bellowing out of the air and reaching all parts of the camp through the camp’s announcing system. “Attention!” it called out. “Quiet! Attention to orders—this is Colonel Vanistart of the Federation Peace Forces, speaking for the Military Governor of Venus. Conditional amnesty has been granted to all colonists with the exception of those holding office in the rebel government and commissioned officers in the rebel forces. You will be released as quickly as you can be identified. The code of laws in force before the rebellion is restored, subject to such new laws as may be promulgated by the military governor. Attention to Emergency Law Number One! The cities of New London, Buchanan, and CuiCui Town are abolished. Hereafter no community of more than one thousand population will be permitted. Not more than ten persons may assemble without license from the local provost. No military organization may be formed, nor may any colonist possess power weapons under penalty of death.”
The voice paused. Don heard someone behind him say, “But what do they expect us to do? We’ve no place to go, no way to live—”
The rhetorical question was answered at once. The voice went on, “No assistance will be furnished to dispersed rebels by the Federation. Relief to refugees must be provided by colonists who have not been dispossessed. When you are liberated you are advised to spread out into the surrounding countryside and seek temporary shelter with farmers and in the smaller villages.”
A bitter voice said, “There’s your answer, Clara—they don’t give a hoot whether we live or die.”
The first voice answered, “But how can we get away? We don’t even own a gondola.”
“Swim, I guess. Or walk on water.”
Soldiers came inside and delivered them to the gate in groups of fifty, cutting them out like cowpunchers handling cattle. Don had pushed toward the gate, hoping to spot Isobel during the processing, and got picked up against his will in the second group. He produced his I.D.s when demanded and immediately ran into a hitch; his name did not appear in the city lists. He explained that he had come in on the last trip of the Nautilus.
“Why didn’t you say so?” grumbled the soldier doing the checking. He turned and produced another list: “Hannegan… Hardecker…here it is: Harvey, Donald J.—Yikes! Wait a minute—it’s flagged. Hey, sarge! This bird has a polit flag against his name.”
“Inside with him,” came the bored answer.
Don found himself shoved into the guardroom at the gate, along with a dozen other worried-looking citizens. Almost at once he was conducted on into a little office at the rear. A man who would have seemed tall had he not been so fat stood up and said, “Donald James Harvey?”
“That’s right.”
The man came to him
and looked him over, his face wreathed in a happy grin. “Welcome, my boy, welcome! Am I glad to see you!”
Don looked puzzled. The man went on, “I suppose I should introduce myself—Stanley Bankfield, at your service. Political Officer First Class, I.B.I., at the moment special adviser to his excellency, the Governor.”
At the mention of the I.B.I., Don stiffened. The man noticed it—his little fat-enfolded eyes seemed to notice everything. He said, “Easy, son! I mean you no harm; I’m simply delighted to see you. But I must say you have led me a merry chase—half around the system. At one point I thought you had been killed in the late lamented Glory Road, and I cried tears over your demise. Yes, sir! real tears. But that’s over with, and all’s well that ends well. So let’s have it.”
“Have what?”
“Come, now! I know all about you—almost every word you’ve uttered back to your babyhood. I’ve even fed sugar to your stock pony, Lazy. So hand it over.”
“Hand what over?”
“The ring, the ring!” Bankfield put out a pudgy hand.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Bankfield shrugged mightily. “I am talking about a plastic ring, marked with an initial ‘H’, given to you by the late Dr. Jefferson. You see, I know what I am talking about; I know you have it, and I mean to have it. An officer in my own service was so stupid as to let you walk out with it—and was broken for it. You wouldn’t want that to happen to me, I’m sure. So give it to me.”
“Now I know what ring you are talking about,” Don answered, “but I don’t have it.”
“Eh? What’s that you are saying? Where is it, then?”
Don’s mind was racing ahead. It took him no time at all to decide not to set the I.B.I. to looking for Isobel—no, not if he had to bite his tongue out. “I suppose it’s burned up,” he answered.
Bankfield cocked his head on one side. “Donald, my boy, I believe you are fibbing to me—I do indeed! You hesitated just a teeny-weeny bit before you answered. No one but a suspicious old man like myself would have noticed it.”
“It’s true,” Don insisted. “Or, at least, I think it is. One of those monkeys you have working for you set fire to the building just as I left. I suppose the building burnt down and the ring with it. But maybe it didn’t.”
Bankfield looked doubtful. “What building?”
“Two Worlds Dining Room, at the end of Paradise Alley off the foot of Buchanan Street.”
Bankfield moved rapidly to the door, gave orders. “Use as many men as needed,” he concluded, “and sift every ounce of ash. Move!” He turned back, sighing. “Mustn’t neglect any possibilities,” he said, “but now we will go back to the probability that you lied. Why should you have taken off your ring in a restaurant?”
“To wash dishes.”
“Eh?”
“I was working for my meals, living there. I didn’t like putting it in the hot water so I kept it in my room.”
Bankfield pursed his lips. “You almost convince me. Your story holds together. And yet, let us both pray that you are deceiving me. If you are and can lead me to the ring, I would be very grateful. You could go back to Earth in style and comfort. I think I could even promise a moderate annuity; we have special funds for such purposes.”
“I’m not likely to collect it—unless they find the ring in the restaurant.”
“Dear me! In that case I don’t suppose either one of us will go back to Earth. No, sir, I think that in such a case I would find it better to stay right here—devoting my declining years to making your life miserable.”
He smiled. “I was joking—I’m sure we’ll find the ring, with your help. Now, Don, tell me what you did with it.” He put an arm around Don’s shoulders in a fatherly fashion.
Don tried to shrug the arm off, found that he could not. Bankfield went on, “We could settle it quickly if I had proper equipment at hand. Or I could do this—” The arm around Don’s shoulders dropped suddenly; Bankfield seized Don’s left little finger and bent it back sharply. Involuntarily Don grunted with pain.
“Sorry! I don’t like such methods. The operator, in an excess of zeal, frequently damages the client so that no truth of any sort is forthcoming. No, Don, I think we will wait a few minutes while I get word to the medical department—sodium pentothal seems to be indicated. It will make you more cooperative, don’t you think?” Bankfield stepped again to the door. “Orderly! Put this one on ice. And send in that Mathewson character.”
Don was conducted outside the guardhouse and into a pen, a fenced enclosure used to receive prisoners. It was some thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long; one of its longer sides was common with the fence that ran around the entire camp, the other shut it off from the free world. The only entrance to it lay through the guardhouse.
There were several dozen prisoners in the receiving pen, most of them civilian men, although Don saw a number of women and quite a few officers of the Middle Guard and of the Ground Forces—still in uniform but disarmed.
He at once checked the faces of the women; none was Isobel. He had not expected to find her, yet found himself vastly disappointed. His time was running out; he realized with panic that it was probably only minutes until he would be held down, drug injected into his veins—and be turned thereby into a babbling child with no will to resist their questioning. He had never been subjected to narco-interrogation but he knew quite well what the drug would do. Even deep-hypnotic suggestion could not protect against it in the hands of a skilled operator.
Somehow he felt sure that Bankfield was skilled.
He went to the far end of the pen, pointlessly, as a frightened animal will retreat to the back of a cage. He stood there, staring up at the top of the fence several feet above his head. The fence was tight and strong, proof against almost anything but a dragon, but one could get handholds in the mesh—it could be climbed. However, above the mesh were three single strands of wire; every ten feet or so on the lowest strand was a little red sign—a skull-and-crossbones and the words HIGH VOLTAGE.
Don glanced back over his shoulder. The everpresent fog, reinforced by smoke from the burning city, almost obscured the guardhouse. The breeze had shifted and the smoke was getting thicker; he felt reasonably sure that no one could see him but other prisoners.
He tried it, found that his shoes would not go into the mesh, kicked them off and tried again.
“Don’t!” said a voice behind him.
Don looked back. A major of the Ground Forces, cap missing and one sleeve torn and bloody, stood behind him. “Don’t try it,” the major said reasonably. “It will kill you quickly. I know; I supervised its installation.”
Don dropped to the ground. “Isn’t there some way to switch it off?”
“Certainly—outside.” The officer grinned wryly. “I took care of that. A locked switch in the guardhouse—and another at the main distribution board in the city. Nowhere else.” He coughed. “Pardon me—the smoke.”
Don looked toward the burning city. “The distribution board back in the powerhouse,” he said softly. “I wonder—”
“Eh?” The major followed his glance. “I don’t know—I couldn’t say. The powerhouse is fireproof.”
A voice behind them in the mist shouted, “Harvey! Donald J. Harvey! Front and center!”
Don swarmed up the fence.
He hesitated just before touching the lowest of the three strands, flipped it with the back of his hand. Nothing happened—then he was over and falling. He hit badly, hurting a wrist, but scrambled to his feet and ran.
There were shouts behind him; without stopping he risked a look over his shoulder. Someone else was at the top of the fence. Even as he looked he heard the hiss of a beam. The figure jerked and contracted, like a fly touched by flame.
The figure raised its head. Don heard the major’s voice in a clear triumphant baritone: “Venus and Freedom!” He fell back inside the fence.
XII
Wet Desert
DON plunged ahead, not knowing where he was going, not caring as long as it was away. Again he heard the angry, deadly hissing; he cut to the left and ran faster, then cut back again beyond a clump of witch’s brooms. He pounded ahead, giving it all he had, with his breath like dry steam in his throat—then skidded to a stop at water’s edge.
He stood still for a moment, looked and listened. Nothing to see but grey mist, nothing to hear but the throbbing of his own heart. No, not quite nothing—someone shouted in the distance and he heard the sounds of booted feet crashing through the brush. It seemed to come from the right; he turned left and trotted along the waterfront, his eyes open for a gondola, a skiff, anything that would float.
The bank curled back to the left; he followed it, then stopped as he realized that it was leading him to the narrow neck of land that joined Main Island to East Spit. It was a cinch, he thought, that there would be a guard at the bottleneck; it seemed to him that there had been one there when he and the other dispossessed had been herded across it to the prison camp.
He listened—yes, they were still behind him—and flanking him. There was nothing in front of him but the bank curving back to certain capture.
For a moment his face was contorted in an agony of frustration, then his features suddenly relaxed to serenity and he stepped firmly into the water and walked away from the land.
Don could swim, in which respect he differed from most Venus colonials. On Venus no one ever swims; there is no water fit to swim in. Venus has no moon to pile up tides; the solar tide disturbs her waters but little. The waters never freeze, never approach the critical 4° C. which causes terrestrial lakes and streams and ponds to turn over and “ventilate.” The planet is almost free of weather in the boisterous sense. Her waters lie placid on their surface—and accumulate vileness underneath, by the year, by the generation, by the eon.
Don walked straight out, trying not to think of the black and sulphurous muck he was treading in. The water was shallow; fifty yards out with the shore line dim behind him, he was still in only up to his knees. He glanced back and decided to go out farther; if he could not see the shore, then they could not see him. He reminded himself that he would have to keep his wits about him not to get turned around.
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