by Jerry
“There was one other, the planet, Pa-Mura. It proved to be the better suited for us. We migrated in huge space ships, both from here and the mother planet to the one they found in outer space. But before the migration was complete, disaster struck. Cataclysms, in the form of floods and earthquakes struck and engulfed these cities.
“Great numbers of people lost their lives. Worse, certain scientific machinery was lost. It is because of that loss that we are here. We must have the machines before we depart!”
The two men before Jetto had given him their full attention. He had been aware of that from the very beginning. It was not for nothing that he was known at Jetto the Crafty. It was no longer a man, addressing them, but an actor.
The finely-drawn face was mobile in the extreme, changing with every mood. His mouth had drooped when he spoke of the catastrophe that had happened, as if he held a brief for the victims of it. His face became exalted when he spoke of the glories of his mother race. Now, his shoulders and arms lifted in supplication, as he came to the climax, to the clincher in his plea for Norton’s help:
“But that Is only a minor reason for our being here. Peace has been our constant companion on Pa-Mura. I was at the head of the state. And a gang, understand, a gang, seized control of the government while I was away. I had to flee for my life! But I remembered this planet and the colonies it once had. And remembered too the scientific riches they had held. Norton! I know where one of those cities is buried!
“And with your help, we will excavate for it. Neither you nor any of those who help, will be the loser for it. I promise you that!”
They were almost convinced of his sincerity. In fact, Witson was, so great an actor was Jetto. Not Norton, however. He could not give an explanation for his disbelief. Instinct told him that Jetto had not told all. That there was a part, some small or large distortion to the tale.
“You have answered my questions fairly enough,” Norton said. “But I don’t understand why you want me. Witson, here, has exaggerated my importance. It may be true, as he says, that my name is a household word but that does not make me a statesman. We have a president and ruling body in Washington. Certainly they . . .”
“I am so sorry!” Jetto interrupted. “A most unfortunate and regrettable accident happened. Because we did not know how we would be received, we had to take certain steps to make our landing safe. Your leader and certain high members of his council were in a theater at the time . . . it was quite horrible. And because those who were in high places did not believe that his, er, accident, was not pre-meditated, they would not co-operate. So you see, we have little choice in the matter of finding a voice to explain our position.”
NORTON was aghast at the words.
In a theater. He thought of another who had also been a victim of an assassin. And also in a theater. He was about to ask what happened to those who failed to co-operate, when there was an unscheduled interruption.
The double doors which opened out into the main corridor swung wildly open and a man ran in, bowing his head in quick jerks as he approached the couch. He panted out the message he had for Jetto:
“Mighty Jetto! The—Prime Number—from New York—enemy craft approaching—wants instructions!”
A terrible change came over Jetto’s face. His temper, quick to burn, blazed instantly.
“Use the blast wave on them!” he shouted. “Stupid fools! Do they think to stop me? Daring to face me with their childish space ships!”
The messenger departed, as he came, bowing and scraping. But before he quite reached the door, Norton stopped him.
“Wait!” he commanded.
The man turned, looking quickly from Norton to his leader.
“That isn’t necessary,” Norton lowered his voice from a shout to a conversational plane. “Let me talk to them over the radio. Let me . . .”
“No! I’ve listened to enough. Both to Fu-ta and you. You’ll do as I say! And without reservation.”
“And if I don’t?” Norton asked darkly.
“Then I’ll make you wish you had,” Jetto answered. There was that in his voice which made chills run down Norton’s back. He had not the slightest doubt that Jetto could and would keep his promise. Yet his answer was the only one he could give.
“Okay, mister,” he said. “You can do your damndest. But you won’t get this man to play stooge for you.”
“And you can count me in on that too,” came the high-pitched voice of Witson, in echo.
Jetto’s face became scarlet as it filled with blood, so great was his anger. His whole body shook in the grip of it. He pointed a quivering hand at them.
“Take them away,” he said venomously. “And put them into the deepest and darkest hole of a prison you can find. And let them rot there until I can think up a torture to fit their crime.”
Norton and his friend were passive in the grip of the guards who had appeared as if by magic. This time they were not handled with the care that had been exercised before. They were dragged to the door. But before they were shoved through, Norton turned and laughed full in Jetto’s face. It was a small but worthwhile pleasure.
Once again they were put into one of the oddly-shaped cars. And once again there was that terrific, speedy ride. It was over in a second. The flush-door opened and they stepped out. Norton recognized the building before them, instantly. It was the old county jail.
THE dirt-grimed stones were grayness melting into grayness, each a gravestone marker to the years. In the early sixties the health department, which had been using the building, moved into its own. It had remained vacant since then. Now it was a prison once again.
An entire company of Murian warriors were deployed around the structure. Strange looking weapons were mounted at the four corners, evidence of the Murians’ fear that the people’s will to revolt was not entirely dead. The guards, with Norton and Witson between them, rushed through the doors. They were shoved against a wall, while the leader of the squad reported to his superior.
Most of the Murians Norton had seen were, if not pleasant looking, at least human in features. This man was neither. Something had happened to his face. It was all out of focus. His nose was squashed flat against his cheeks. A great gash had been torn from a cheek and his right eye hung down on the mutilated flesh in an unnerving stare. A sword had bitten deeply across his mouth and as a result it hung askew in an idiot’s grin.
This was Tomet, their jailer!
He regarded them malevolently for several seconds without saying anything. His right hand toyed with the stock of a lash that hung from the belt around his waist. His inspection over, he said:
“Ntho they nwon’t co-operate, neh? N’nhen pwaps I c’n ndo nsomething nabout nthat.”
Witson burst into a cackle of laughter and even Norton had to smile. Tomet had the body of a man, but the voice was that of a woman. And a woman with a bad lisp.
Tomet’s one good eye went wide at the unexpected sound. Then the lids squeezed tight over it and with a high-pitched shriek of rage he charged at them, pulling as he ran, at the lash hanging from the belt. It came free as he skidded to a halt before them.
“Nthere!” he shrieked, as he savagely swung the single thong across Witson’s face and shoulders. “Nthere—nah—nah—nah.” His voice held nothing human in it.
For the barest instant Norton was stood immobile, as if he were spellbound by the savagery of the attack. Then he leaped to the defense of his friend. Tomet’s blows had been wanton and cruel. Norton’s were deliberate, cold and even more savage. For they were scientific and struck in a manner to give the most hurt without making the victim lose consciousness.
Tomet was a big man but he was dwarfed by Norton who stood several inches over six feet. The scientist struck pile driver blows, deliberately twisting his fist as it struck into the features of the jailer. Tomet’s face was lacerated and torn open.
A phalanx of bodies struck Norton. The guards had come to Tomet’s rescue. It was not unexpected. Even as
Norton went to Witson’s defense, he had taken into account the fact that he had at the most only a few seconds in which to inflict whatever damage he could. Nor was he unaware of the consequences that might occur as a result of his action. It had not swayed him in the slightest degree.
Witson went to his knees from a blow of a club in the hands of one of the guards. Norton stepped protectingly before him and dealt out punishment by means of his fists. But it was an unequal fight. The guards had clubs and there were twenty of them pitted against him. One of them stepped back and flung his club. It struck Norton across the bridge of the nose, blinding him with pain. His arms went up in a reflexive movement to protect his eyes and in that instant the rest of the guards piled on. While some pinioned his arms, others struck with fists and clubs.
NORTON went to his knees, slowly, as a mighty tree falls. Nor did they stop beating at him, even then. It was Tomet, oddly enough, who stopped the slaughter:
“Nwait!” he shrieked. “Jetto nwants him nalive.”
They jerked him roughly erect. His head hung low, chin resting against his chest. He hung laxly between the two men who held him, blood dripping in a steady stream from the cuts on his forehead and cheek. He was numb with pain. They dragged him off. Nor was he more than dimly aware of what they were doing.
“Ho, 7,” one of his guards called.
Norton lifted his head at the sound of the voice.
His pain-filled eyes took in their surroundings, but in the distorted focus of one in a dream. Then the focus sharpened, his nose became aware of an odor, and his senses awakened.
He shook himself free of the restraining grips of the guards. They stepped back, their hands flying to the clubs in their belts. But he wasn’t interested in them. Witson lay on the floor beside him. He went to one knee and felt with probing fingers for the pulse. It beat, but feebly. And all the while he was bent, feeling for the spark of life in Witson’s body, all his senses were aware of the horrible odor all about him. It was the foul, decaying odor of human flesh, too long in confinement and without any of the ordinary means of relief. It was as fetid and miasmic as the air from some malarial swamp.
“What’s wrong here?” a new voice rasped.
Norton lifted his head and measured the man he saw. If it was number 7, he was not a prepossessing sight. He was short and squat, with a barrel chest and arms which hung to his knees. His eyes were Mongoloid and even in the dimness of the passage, Norton saw the cruelty lying in their depths.
“They got a little rough with Tomet,” one of the guards offered in explanation.
“H’m. So they’re a couple of tough birds, eh? Well, two of my little birds in the third cage got sick yesterday and we had to give them a bath, in the river. That makes it just right. The cages got to be full, you know,” he said and roared in laughter. He sobered up quickly and gave a command:
“Well! Don’t stand there like a pair of idiots! Throw them in!”
“Wait!” Norton said quietly.
“Huh?” 7 said.
“This man needs a doctor,” Norton said.
“Naw! Now ain’t that too bad. Maybe he just needs a change of air. Doctor! Throw them in three cell,” 7 roared.
“Jetto won’t like it,” Norton said slowly.
There was a second’s silence.
“Go on,” 7 said.
“He wants us kept alive. And I can assure you that if this man doesn’t get medical attention, he’ll die.”
7 looked to the two guards who nodded their heads vigorously in affirmation.
“Well, why didn’t you idiots say so?” he bellowed. “Let’s see,” he said cocking his head to one side in thought. “Where’ll we put them? Ah! I’ve got it! That end cell’s only got one man in it. That traitor. Carry the old guy in there.”
THE stench was so great, Norton breathed in shallow gasps, as they walked the length of the corridor, past the rows of cells on either side. Shrieks, groans and curses followed them in their march. The poor wretches in the cells gave voice to their hatred as best they could. The guards, Norton noticed, walked as quickly as they could even though there wasn’t the slightest chance that they would be harmed.
Norton took the body of the semiconscious Witson from them as one of them inserted the key 7 had given him into the lock. The door opened on creaking, rusty hinges. He carried the old man across the threshold and the door slammed closed. There was a slatted heavy bench on either side of the room. Norton put the figure of Witson on it.
He had been aware of a strange sound in the cell, when they came in. It was the sound of a voice humming a tune. The sound emanated from the other bench which was at the other end of the cell. He peered closely toward it and saw a figure reclining on it.
“Mind giving me a hand, here?” Norton asked.
The figure arose and came slowly forward. It was a Murian. He came and stood beside Norton who was engaged in removing Witson’s outer garments. Norton threw him a glance over his shoulder. He saw a fairly tall man, slenderly built but of a ranginess that suggested hidden strength. He could not see his face clearly in the gloomy light. Then the man bent forward to look more closely at Witson and Norton saw that the stranger was young. More, that there was intelligence, humor and strength in his features.
“H’m. Doesn’t look too good,” the stranger said. “7 better get the doctor here in a hurry.”
Witson’s breath which had been coming in shallow gasps, now had a rattling quality to it. It was obvious that he had been badly hurt. Norton forgot his own pain and wounds.
“Damn them!” he gritted through tight lips. “Where’s that doctor?”
“Here, here,” a voice answered in frightened tones. “Be with you in a second.”
The door swung open and a man scuttled into the cell. 7’s voice followed him in:
“And see to it that he lives, understand?”
“Don’t worry,” the doctor said in pleading tones. “I will!”
“Oh dear!” the doctor exclaimed in a frightened tone. “Why don’t they have lights, so a man can see what he’s doing.” The fright in his voice was only part of the greater fright that possessed every part of him.
Silence answered his query. They could hear 7’s footsteps slapping down the corridor.
The doctor was a frightened, little man, emaciated from hunger, whose thin face was covered with a stubble of beard. His eyes leaped from one to another in the cell in silent begging for understanding. Almost gently, Norton said:
“You’re with friends. Don’t be afraid.”
“They were all my friends,” the doctor said tearfully. “Now . . .”
Norton arose and patted the thin shoulders. The thin frame shuddered under Norton’s reassuring fingers, then stiffened, abruptly.
“I’m alright now,” the doctor said. “Thanks.”
Norton watched the thin, strong fingers at work. The doctor kneaded and prodded at Witson, eliciting a moan of pain, now and then. The doctor shook his head, in silent reproach.
“If only there was more light,” he said softly.
NORTON thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He knew that in a second more he would begin hammering at the walls in futile anger. Slowly, he withdrew one of his hands. Clenched within it was a paper pad of matches.
“Will these help?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” the doctor replied excitedly. “One at a time, though. We may need them all.”
He was right. To the last match. When the doctor arose, there were new lines of tiredness around his mouth. But in his eyes there was triumph.
“He’ll live,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll give him something to ease the pain and put him to sleep for a while.”
He picked up the case from which he had taken several vials of pills and a hypodermic needle. Norton, a close observer, saw that frightened as he had been, the doctor was a thorough man. He had given Witson as complete an examination as was possible under the circumstances. The doctor pulled the stopper fr
om one of the small bottles and inserted the needle within, drawing out a small quantity of the drug it contained. He shot the whole amount into Witson’s arm.
“A combination of penicillin and neoscadrine,” he explained. “Lucky I had some left. It’ll take care of both the shock and wounds, which are not of importance, let me assure you. The shock is. He’s not young, you know.” Norton was only half-listening. His eyes were riveted on the case. He had seen another needle in it.
“Er, doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Suppose something comes up? And you won’t be here, of course. Mind if I have one of those needles?”
The doctor regarded him silently for several seconds, then smiled.
“But of course,” he replied. “I understand. Here take one. You know how to use it?”
“Yes.”
“Good! And here. A vial of this will prove to be of help, also.”
Norton waited until the doctor had left, under the escort of one of the guards, before he opened his palm. The small vial in his palm was marked, morphine.
“Think you’ll be able to use it?” the Murian asked.
Norton shrugged his shoulders. Now that the problem of Witson was solved, he felt he was able to give his full attention to this stranger from another planet.
“Am I right in thinking that, er, you are considered a traitor?” he asked. The other smiled pleasantly and said: “So they say. And rightly.”
“What happened?”
“Well, being a prime number, I was in charge of the landing in this area. An order came through to use a certain ray. I refused. That was all.”
“What is this prime number business?” Norton asked. There was more than curiosity in his question. If this man was a rebel, then they had gained an ally. His question was his opening wedge to gain the other’s confidence.
“Sorry,” the other said in a pleasant tone. “Of course you don’t know. You see, I’m a mutation. So is 7. And any one of us who has a number instead of a name.”