by Jerry
“So has the Federation,” Trent said briefly.
“TELL Mr. Murdock a Federation agent is here to see him!”
Trent’s voice was as cold as the void itself. The trip from Asteroid 13 to this coastal Venusian city had taken two hours. Two hours which were, he knew, as two eternities to the people back on 13. The page to whom he delivered his demand disappeared through two chromeagleam doors which slid together and clicked softly after him. Trent looked briefly about the huge reception rooms with the glittering crystal walls and foamy blue marble floors and then back to Gail.
“Wait here for me,” he said. “I won’t be long with Murdock. Then we’ll head for the commercial spaceport, to take over a transport.”
He smiled at her then, with one of his rare smiles, and strode to the door through which the page had disappeared, jerked it open and strode into a luxuriously appointed office.
At a huge desk at the far end of the room sat a man who dwarfed the desk itself. His arms, resting on the desk before him, looked like massive posts and his chest looked the size of an oak tree trunk. His head was in proportion to the rest of his body and was covered with black hair as coarse as rope. His face was fat but not so fat that the hard, heavy jaw line was completely concealed. The eyes were small and black, and as Trent strode toward the man, he felt that the little eyes were boring not only at him but through him. The page, a slender youth, was standing next to the desk, obviously frightened.
“You wanted to see me?” Murdock asked in a gravel-throated voice. He nodded slightly to the page who disappeared silently.
“You bet I do,” Trent answered. “If your man Hawkett has been here maybe you know why I’m here. In my official capacity as Federation agent I am ordering evacuation of Asteroid 13. And that order is effective immediately.”
“Hawkett has been here,” Murdock said, “and I sort of expected you. I didn’t really expect you maybe, but I hoped you’d come. The only thing I enjoy more than a brave man is a fool, and you seem to be both, Mr. Trent.” Murdock leaned back in his chair and his mighty frame shook as he chuckled. “I’m not interested in the Federation. I’m interested in Pelyisium. Asteroid 13 is not going to be evacuated as you so optimistically expect. In fact, Hawkett is on his way back to 13 with a dozen guards to see that production is maintained. Does that satisfy all of your curiosity in connection with my business?”
“It doesn’t satisfy me, Murdock,” Trent said quietly. “If you’ve decided to battle the Federation you won’t be setting a precedent. A lot of men have fought us. But remember this: No man has ever licked the Federation. If you disregard my order you’ll be facing the Inter-Planetary Tribunal inside of a week.”
Murdock stood up, his pumpkin-like face crimson.
“To hell with your orders,” he bellowed wrathfully. “Nobody gives orders to me. In two more weeks I’ll have the Pelyisium of the Universe in my pocket and then I’ll give all the orders.” His palm slapped down on the desk across a row of buttons. “You’ve shot off your mouth too long about what you’re going to do, Mr. Agent. Your meddling days are over.”
TRENT tensed. He realized too late the mistake he had made. It had never occurred to him that Murdock was ready to defy the Federation.
“You asked for it,” he barked. Wheeling, he grabbed a chromealloy chair and hurled it at the mountainous figure behind the desk. He heard a crash and a bellow of rage, but by then he was racing for the chromeagleam doors. They opened before he reached them and two stocky figures charged into the room.
Trent hurled himself at their knees. He cut under them like a scythe through tall grass and rolled to his feet like a rubber ball.
“Gail,” he yelled. And then he was in the elaborate office and something like a cold hand closed over his heart. Gail was gone!
“Gail,” he shouted, staring frantically about the room. A door opened suddenly on the far side of the room and Trent saw three thoroughly business-like looking gentlemen pouring in on him. Behind him from the inner office he could hear Murdock’s enraged bellows.
Trent wheeled, raced for the main doors. One of Murdock’s thugs yelled something indistinguishable and moved to intercept him. Trent measured him, and, when he came into range, swung once with his right, in a chopping ax-like stroke. The man sprawled to the floor, his jaw hanging queerly.
Trent leaped over his limp form but before he could make the door a shoulder crashed into him from behind. He staggered but kept his feet, struggling toward the door dragging Murdock’s man with him. The man’s arms were tightening around his waist with every step. Panting, Trent whirled, shaking the man’s arms loose.
He saw in split-second panoramic view, Murdock’s mammoth figure in the doorway leading to the private office and the third of the thugs raising an electric gun. Before he could move a muscle a blinding flash seared his eyeballs and a piercing agonizing pain seemed to explode in the center of his forehead. Then he was lying on the floor and Murdock’s mountainous figure was over him. For one terrible, bitter instant he thought of Asteroid 13 and a girl with black hair and red lips who had trusted him. Then something black and thick and inevitable settled over him . . .
PAIN, searing and angry, wrapped its agonizing embrace about the huddled, limp figure which was stretched along the Venusian dock, legs trailing in the blue canal water. The figure moved and the legs were drawn another inch onto the dock. The figure was still then and it was moments before it moved again. When it did, the legs were drawn free from the water, and, very slowly, the figure turned on its back.
Philip Trent opened his eyes.
He saw nothing and it was minutes before his pain-fogged mind knew it was night. He lay there for minutes trying to assimilate that knowledge. It meant something to someone, he knew tiredly. The pain was localizing itself now at his right temple. Instinctively his hand moved there, touched something warm and sticky. He found then that his right eye was not open. It was closed and felt as if it were on fire.
Memory began to filter into his consciousness. Fire—heat—pain. It all fitted together somehow. He sat up groaning.
His mind was clearing fast as he stared about him. He was on a dark, unused, deserted wharf dock. His clothes were dripping wet. An occasional canal cruiser hummed by, its lights visible in the blackness.
He climbed slowly to his feet and pressed his hand against his temples as the fog lifted from his mind. He had been shot by Murdock’s man, evidently thrown into the canal for dead. His hands explored his pockets. All identification removed, tags ripped from his clothing.
God, how much time had passed? How long had he lain here? Two thoughts hammered into his pain-shot head. The miners on Asteroid 13 and Gail O’Neil. Maybe 13 had already blown itself into dust by now. But Gail O’Neil was still on Venus, held by Murdock’s men.
Lurching drunkenly, he staggered along the dark canal front, his mind black with despair. He had been walking for several minutes when he collided with a dark figure who was mooring a canal craft to a post set in the dock.
“Watch your step, you Venusian drunk,” the man growled.
Trent swayed slightly, then his hand slipped into his jacket pocket, formed a bulge there. A vague plan was forming. He knew he could expect no help on Venus; Murdock’s influence extended too far. Any man he might meet could be a Murdock spy. If Murdock discovered that he lived, he would be hunted down as ruthlessly and swiftly as a wharf rat.
“Okay friend,” he said grimly, “you’re the man I need.”
“What the—”
“Quiet,” Trent said, and the chilled steel quality was in his voice. “You’re going to take me to Murdock’s. Know the way?”
“Yes, but,” the man’s eyes dropped to the bulge in Trent’s jacket and he said no more. Turning he threw off the mooring line and clambered into the bullet-like canal convertible.
TRENT climbed in after him, seated himself in the rear seat.
“Gonna submerge,” the unwilling pilot said surlily. “Watch your head.�
�� He flicked a switch and a steel cowling moved into place over Trent’s head, converting the boat into a slim torpedo boat.
A second later the boat moved noiselessly forward and then Trent felt the nose drop suddenly as it submerged. Over the pilot’s shoulder he could see the sub’s powerful headlamp cutting a bright swath through the still, blue water.
“We’ll reach Murdock’s water ramp in a few minutes,” the pilot said later. He laughed unpleasantly. “I hope to hell you try to treat him like you done me. He’ll pay you off for both of us.”
Trent didn’t answer. His head was throbbing painfully and the pain in his right eye was growing worse. He still couldn’t see with it.
He felt the nose of the craft tipping up again and then in a few more seconds the steel cowling shot back. The boat was bobbing against a dock in a mammoth circular waterway.
Trent climbed from the boat, took his hand from his pocket, showed the glowering pilot his empty pocket, then walked quickly into one of the passages that led from the circular dock. The passage was winding and ascending and in two turns he ran into a guard.
The guard looked at him curiously as he approached.
“I’m looking for some one,” Trent said, “and I wonder if—” He stopped speaking as he stepped close to the guard. He knew he would have only one chance. The guard was peering at his battered and bloody face with open suspicion when Trent swung. The blow lacked steam. The guard staggered but he did not go down. His hand clawed at his gun, as Trent leaped at him desperately. His elbow sank into the guard’s throat. The guard slammed back against the wall, his head snapping into its brick-hard surface with a sickening smack.
Trent took the gun from the limp body and went on. He emerged from the spiraling passage into a large, lavishly decorated lobby. It was brilliantly lighted and quite empty. Trent shook his head and went on. Somewhere in these ornate rooms Gail O’Neil was held prisoner. And here also was Big Bill Murdock.
Halfway across the marble floor Trent heard a shout behind him. Turning he saw two yellow jacketed Venusian house-boys coming toward him.
Trent ran. His head ached slightly as he stumbled across the foyer and up an ornately decorated winding staircase. Panting, he staggered up the last steps and into a hallway.
Something exploded past him with a searing hiss. Wheeling, Trent saw one of Murdock’s thugs at the far end of the corridor, electric gun in hand.
Trent hurled himself to the floor, the gun in his hand leaping into instinctive action. A fiery electric pellet pinged from the gun and Trent saw the man pitch to the floor.
Scrambling to his feet Trent dragged himself up the stairway. The Venusian houseboys had retreated hurriedly when the firing had started. Trent’s jaw hardened. He knew he didn’t have much more time. Looking down the stairs he could see through to the first floor where the Venusians were excitedly clamoring for help. Trent went on up the stairs to the fourth floor.
He heard the sound, then, of footsteps above him and he hurried down the fourth floor corridor. He tried one door and then another. It opened under his hand. He shut the door swiftly, setting the electric lock as he did so. Then, gun in hand, he looked about the room. It was just as luxuriously furnished as everything he had seen, but it seemed more like an office. There was a desk, flashaphone, dictagraphs.
He crossed the heavily rugged floor, quietly and swiftly, to another door. He opened it a crack and then held his breath as he heard voices. He crouched, ear to the door and listened.
“YOU’RE being very foolish, my dear,” he heard a voice say. A hot pulse pounded in his throat as he recognized it as Murdock’s. “Trent is dead,” Murdock’s voice resumed, “make no mistake about that. Forget him and the people on 13. What are they but the scum and riff-raff of creation anyway? A girl as smart as you are would get on very well here with me.”
“I don’t believe Philip Trent is dead,” Trent heard Gail’s defiant voice answer, “but if he is you’ll answer to the Federation for his death.”
Trent kicked open the door and stepped into the room, gun ready.
“You’re right, Gail,” he said grimly. “Mr. Murdock is going to answer to the Federation.”
Murdock sat behind a large desk, his face whitening as Trent’s battered and unkempt figure moved slowly toward him. Gail turned swiftly at the sound of his voice, her face lighting with incredulous joy. Then she moved toward him, her expression changing.
“You’re hurt,” she said anxiously, “bleeding from your—eye.”
“Forget it,” Trent said. “I’m all right.” He watched Murdock carefully. “Keep your hands in sight,” he said, “or I’ll save the Tribunal the job of exterminating you.” Murdock’s ponderous fists moved into view on the desk.
“It’s your show,” he said mockingly. “What happens next? I’m interested in just how you’re going to pull this thing. I’ve got about two hundred guards and employees located here in the building.” He leaned back in the chair, his huge frame relaxed and confident. “It will be a very nice trick, Mr. Trent,” he sneered, “if it works.”
“It’ll work,” Trent said, “but if it doesn’t you’ll never know it. I told you you couldn’t lick the Federation, Murdock. You can’t lick it because it’s the people. And you can’t lick the people.”
Before he finished speaking he heard the shouted sounds of excitement outside in the corridor. Then someone was pounding on the outer door.
“You in there, Boss?” a voice shouted. Murdock smiled.
“It’s still your show, Mr. Trent.”
“Philip,” Gail said suddenly, and Trent noticed she used his first name, “there’s a way out I think. Before you came in Murdock was telling me how smart he was with precautions taken for every possibility. Even a quick get-a-way from the tower of the building.”
“How?” Trent asked. His question was to Murdock.
“Do I look stupid enough to tell you?” Murdock laughed.
“How?” Trent repeated, and his voice was low.
Murdock looked at the electric gun in the battered hand and then at the one deep brown eye in Trent’s impassive face.
“You would at that,” Murdock said softly. “All right, relax. I have a catapult and a rocket taxi in the tower. But how do you intend to get up there. Wings?”
“Philip,” Gail said breathlessly, “he said something about a private elatube.”
“All right,” Trent said, “on your feet.” Murdock shrugged, stood up.
“I’ll take you up there,” he said, “but you’re piling up a heavy score for me to settle, Trent. I play for keeps and I’m a very poor loser.”
“Move,” Trent said. He was trying to conserve what strength he had left. His head was still throbbing painfully and his knees were about ready to go.
MURDOCK’S huge figure lumbered across the room to a smoothly paneled wall. His hands touched its surface and a panel slid back displaying a small elatube car. Murdock stepped in and Trent and Gail followed him. Trent kept the gun at Murdock’s back.
There were pounding blows being rained against the outside door now and Murdock hesitated momentarily.
Trent jammed the gun into Murdock’s back.
Murdock clicked a switch and the doors closed. Then they were shooting upward with bullet-like speed.
On the tower Murdock stepped out, his jaws clamped together like a vise. A crimson anger stained his features.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said harshly. His rage seemed to be growing greater as he realized that Trent and the girl were slipping away from him.
Trent didn’t answer. He fought to keep the gun steady in his hand as he moved to the rocket taxi that was resting in the launch catapult. The catapult was pointed at an opening at the top of the tower. He helped Gail into the rocket ship, turned to Murdock.
“I’ll see you again,” he said evenly.
“I’ll see you in hell,” Murdock snarled.
Trent’s lips smiled.
“Anywhere you say
,” he said.
Then he climbed into the ship, slammed the heavy steel airlock door behind him and threw the catapult lever . . .
THE rocket taxi blasted from the tower, straight up, its rocket motors thundering into life. Trent took the controls, swung the ship back downward.
“There may be time yet,” he said.
“Oh, I’ve prayed there would be,” Gail said. “There must be. Those women and children and men trusted us. We’ve got to reach Asteroid 13 in time.”
“We’ve got to get a space transport,” Trent said. “I’m heading for the spaceport now. Everything hangs on what happens there.”
He shook his head groggily and wished it would stop aching.
“Philip,” Gail said worriedly, “you’re hurt. Badly. You need attention.”
“So do those people on 13,” Trent said. “I’m all right.”
He threw the repulsion lever then as they were nearing the mooring towers of the vast, sprawling Commercial spaceport. Space craft of all description were rocketing in and out of the field range, the flickering sparks drifting from their rocket exhaust like thousands of tiny stars.
Trent set the nose of the ship in an unoccupied mooring tower, opened the air lock and crawled out on the mooring ramp. He was reaching in to help Gail from the ship when something hard jammed into his back.
He turned slowly. Three uniformed figures stood before him, guns in their hands.
“Mr. Murdock visi-phoned us to expect you,” an officer said, stepping forward. He was a handsome, moustached figure, evidently a commander. He smiled. “You didn’t disappoint us, Mr. Trent.”
“Of course,” Trent said dully, “you take your orders from Murdock.”
“Of course,” the officer bowed slightly.
Trent grinned wearily. Damned stupid of him to overlook that angle. Murdock had merely stepped to a visi-phone when they left and that was that.
“And the lady?” the officer smiled. “She is with you?”
Trent nodded weakly, turned to the air door of the ship.
“Reception committee,” he said. “Look your best, Gail.”