Slowly, he opened his eyes, the merest slit. The Martian guard was still seated, ten feet away, still watchful. Then, with an explosion of energy, Britt drove his feet hard against the wall. His lithe body rose, catapulted across the ten-foot space, driven by muscles attuned to Earth’s gravity.
Before the startled Martian realized what was happening, Britt’s head struck his soft stomach with terrific force. Over he went with a grunt, as his weapon flew out of his hand and he instinctively threw his arms wide, clutching for support.
Meantime Arnim was whirling, over and over, across the floor. As he heard the crash of the Martian’s collapse behind he brought up with a thump against the legs of the control desk. Above he saw the lever that controlled the ship. Straining upward, his teeth closed over the handle.
The corded muscles of his neck stood out as he wrenched backward with all the strength that was in him. For a moment the lever remained motionless. Then, as he drove his knees into the floor and jerked backward once again, the lever gave. Searing flames flared across his face, burned and blinded him, at the sudden cutting off of the current Britt, tumbling in unequal combat with the Martian giant, heard the roar of the rocket tubes stop. Then he felt the floor drop away beneath him, felt himself lifted, smashed against something. Blackness enveloped him. But even as he lost consciousness he heard a great shout of triumph from his leader.
A dash of icy water in his face brought Haldane to. His head throbbed with pain, needle pricks stung his arms and legs. He raised a hand to his aching brow. Why, he was free! Arnim was bending over him.
“All right, lad? Are you all right?” he was asking anxiously.
“Yes. I guess so. A little dizzy, but that’s all.” He forced himself to a sitting position. “But you’re burned!” Across Penger’s face were three livid burns. One eye was closed by a white blister, half his scalp was a blackened patch of singed hair.
“A little.” Penger grinned. “They had plenty of juice going through that control. Might have been worse. I got off lucky. So did you. Take a look at your late antagonist.” Crumpled against the wall was the body of the guard. The queer angle at which his head lolled told the story of a broken neck.
“He was on top, luckily, when the smash came. You both flew through the air, but he hit the wall first, and made a cushion for you. I held onto the lever with my teeth, so I didn’t get any of it. I’d like to see Rutnom’s face now, down there, stuck on that asteroid with no way to get off.” He gestured to the visoscreen.
The blackness of interstellar space was mirrored there, the far-off, glowing worlds, the nearer sun. And, tiny in the distance, a whirling, blurred ball that Britt recognized.
“Gosh; Mr. Penger, you’ve tricked him nicely. I never thought of the fact that the gravity of that little planet would not be sufficient to counteract the centrifugal force set up by its rapid rotation.”
“No, and what is more important, neither did Rutnom. I was sure of that when you told me that he only had his top-rockets on when he landed, though I was almost certain when he talked about the box being down there. All he thought of was the lack of attraction, that’s why he kept his tubes pressing the Satona down, since otherwise, he figured, an unguarded shove would send her careening off. He forgot that the asteroid itself was pushing away at her with a far stronger power.”
“The box,” a sudden thought struck Britt, “We’ve lost that. We’ll have to go back to Venus and hunt for Mr. Bell’s mine again.”
Penger grinned.
“Nope. We’ll get that back too.”
“What do you mean? It must be hundreds of thousands of miles away by now, shooting through space. We can never find it.”
“Wrong again, my lad. I know just where she is. And that was the most ticklish part of the whole scheme. Why do you think I kept my eye glued to that telescope while you were swearing at Rutnom?”
The youngster looked at him blankly. The other went on, happily.
“I didn’t swing around the asteroid the way I did in order to hide what I was doing from the Martians. In fact, I hoped that he would see. What I did was to throw the dispatch box out at just the moment and speed that would bring it sufficiently within the attraction of the little planet to make it a satellite, to keep it swinging around through space in an orbit of its own. Naturally, I didn’t have time to calculate the exact conditions, but I took the chance and it worked.”
“Great! Then all we have to do is to swing back there, spot it in the telescope, and scoop it up.”
“Well,” the other drawled in reply, “It’s not going to be as easy as all that. You see, I pretty much burned out the works here on the Satona. About the only thing that’s still in order is the artificial gravity device. I managed to get that hooked up again, but the rest is gone.”
“Then we’ll have to get across to the Wanderer, and use that.”
“Right. Get into your space suit and we’ll make a go for it.”
They worked rapidly. Arnim felt for their flashes. They were intact in the outer pockets.
“Switch off your gravity control,” he advised Britt. “We’ll be able to maneuver better.”
They were ready now. Penger led the way, threw open the outer lock. They stepped, curiously light, into outer space. The vacuum suits ballooned immediately.
For awhile they floated, while Arnim got his bearings. Directly ahead, not over fifty yards away, lay the glittering ball of the Wanderer. Below spun a jagged fragment of rock, the tiny asteroid they had just quitted.
Arnim chuckled grimly. He thought of Rutnom and the Martians marooned on that tiny desolation, helplessly watching the space ships drifting not more than five miles overhead.
Then he pulled out a little propulsion gun and, pointing it away from the Wanderer, pulled the trigger. He transformed himself into a very inefficient rocket-like projectile. Britt saw and wondered and did likewise.
But finally Penger flashed his beam over the smooth shining skin of the Wanderer. They were home.
His gloved hand found the airlock switch.
They were standing within the old familiar ship, denuded of their space suits. Britt was grinning happily. Arnim was at the electro-telescope, his eyes glued to the instrument, giving swift orders that Britt translated into instant action. The little flier swerved and accelerated; shot off on sudden swift angles. At last Penger motioned.
“Hold her there. We’re right alongside.”
He squirmed into his suit again, dived into the air lock. Britt waited intently. It was only five minutes before he returned, but to the anxious youngster it seemed hours. The precious argento-platinoid box with its even more precious contents was under his arm.
Ganymede was growing momentarily on their screen. Arnim was sprawling luxuriously in his hammock, head resting on thrown-back arms. He wore the sleepy contentment of a cat who had licked up all the cream.
Britt, however, was pacing restlessly to and fro, a worried frown on his clear boyish face. He would cast a sidelong glance at his older comrade, open his mouth, close it abruptly.
“What’s on your mind, Britt, out with it.” Penger spoke casually, without shifting his position.
The youngster stopped short, surprised.
“Well, if you must know, Mr. Penger,” he burst out. “I hate to think of those Martians slowly dying on that horrible little world. I know they’re murderers and all that, but I just can’t help it.”
Arnim looked at him not unkindly.
“Rest your mind, Britt. As soon as we started for Ganymede I radioed the Mercurian Patrol Ship. She’s on her way right now to pick them off.”
“Oh.”
Arnim stretched himself contentedly. “Will I be glad to get back to old Earth, where it’s peaceful and quiet!”
The End
[1] The Martian name for Jupiter. Though Rutnom was speaking in English he failed to translate this in his anger.—Ed.
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Bonus Story:
The Song of the Cakes,
by Arthur Leo Zagat & Nathan Schachner
Oriental Stories Autumn 1931
Short Story - 5643 words
“As the Manchus began in Chung Kuo with a child in arms, so, with a child in arms, shall their dynasty pass from the memory of man.”
—An ancient Chinese prophecy embodied in what was known as The Song of the Cakes.
AS the great gate swung reluctantly open between the white-battlemented earthen walls, Mangu ran forward with a great shout. Close at his heels poured in multitudinous flood the conquering horde of the Chin Tatars. The iron discipline of the march, the toil and danger of many battles, was forgotten. These lean, hard-bitten warriors from the frozen plains of the north saw before them only the incredible loot to be taken in this greatest city of the world.
Peking—it was a name to conjure with! All Asia resounded with tales of its splendid palaces, the bazars piled high with gleaming silks, with soft sheened rugs from Ispahan, sandalwood, myrrh and frankincense from Ind, gold and precious gems that came by caravan from Samarkand.
For this they had marched and fought, these Manchu nomads, under their great Lord, the mighty T’ai Tsung. The city of Kubla Khan, the vast shining city, lay open before them, weakly abandoned by the eunuch-ridden Mings. Mangu spat his scorn as he thought of those womanish rulers.
The fierce warriors scattered through the crooked narrow streets. Bales of silken stuffs came tumbling out of windows, the shrieks of the hapless inhabitants rose high above the shouts of the loot-maddened soldiery.
But with clenched teeth and eager eyes Mangu ran steadily along through the narrow ways. Not for him the petty plunder that satisfied his rude command. Shaggy untaught fighters to whom the sweepings of the bazars seemed untold wealth.
Was he not Mangu, captain of a thousand men, whom the mighty Khan himself had deigned to favor with approval at the last great battle at Shanhaikuan? Greater spoil awaited him. His eye gleamed at the thought.
As he burst into the great open square, the Tatar’s curved sword leaped like a live thing into his hand. Ahead, down the straight vista, rose the lofty palace of the Mings, the king’s treasure-house that was his goal.
But in front of the huge entrance gate massed a group of men, and the sunlight glinted on their weapons—Ming soldiers, barring the way into the sacred domain of their Emperor, Ts’ung Ch’eng. Mangu grew furious at the sight. “Chinese dogs,” he shouted, “dare you dispute with arms the passage of a Manchu warrior? Know you not the city has yielded to the might of our great Khan, T’ai Tsung?”
There was no answer, but the hundred men ranged threateningly into battle order. Mangu, Captain of a Thousand, glanced behind him. Of the great company that had broken through the outer walls, only a handful, a bare dozen, had kept pace with him. The confused shouting from the conquered city, the piercing shrieks of tortured women, the cries of loot-maddened soldiery, told their dread tale.
But neither fear nor caution had ever once disturbed the recklessness of the Manchu captain. He plunged forward shouting. “Ho, men of the Chin Tatars, follow me to crush these weak-kneed eunuchs.” The brawny nomads from the frozen tundras of the north, nostrils dilated, threw themselves after their leader. In an instant the battle was joined. Great curved swords clashed in midair, the contestants fought with bared teeth and fury-distorted faces. The square resounded with the shrieks of dying men.
Mangu felt the blood coursing through his veins like heady wine. A great exultation seized him. Ha! this was living! Good sword in hand, to cut and slash and parry, to feel the bite of his steel in yielding flesh, to glare one moment into the hate-crazed eyes of his enemy, the next to see them dulled in death!
As he laid about him, cutting a wide swath through the heaving mass, he sang a song that breathed the fierceness of his race. And still the blood-red weapon bit and slew!
The fight was over. The scattered remnants of the Mings fled aghast from this Tatar demon. Regretfully he turned, to marshal his men. The shout of victory died on his lips. Of his comrades, not one was alive. Mingled with the heaps of Chinese dead, sprawled their corpses. Unknowing, he had fought alone at the end, and won!
Mangu shrugged his shoulders. Once more his face turned to the great gate. His long sword battered on the portals.
“Open, ye spawn of misbegotten fathers!” he roared. “Open, or I’ll rip the steaming entrails out of your womanish bodies, and throw them to the birds of heaven.”
The threat was effective. The watchers in the blue-tiled towers had witnessed the fierce prowess of this northern devil. The gate swung slowly open, the trembling people cast themselves prostrate before the arrogant captain. “Have mercy, Oh Lord of a thousand moons,” they cried in gray fear; “have mercy on us, who eat the dust beneath your all-conquering feet. We are but the most insignificant of earth’s creatures.”
Mangu glanced contemptuously at the groveling figures, spurned with his foot the nearest, but did not deign an answer. They were not worthy even of death at his hands.
Before him stretched a fabulous vista of flowery delights. His eye passed it over impatiently. A figure dangling from a ginko tree caught his eye. It swung idly in the breeze, dressed in royal robes. His lips curled. So the Ming Emperor had taken the easy way out! And still his eye roved on. It settled on a huge fantastic structure, topped by three yellow-tiled curving roofs. That was it—the Temple of Heaven! In its depths, he knew, was secreted the incalculable wealth of the Mings. No lesser treasure would be his. Before the riotous, looting soldiers could penetrate thus far, he would have reaped the reward of his daring.
HE raced up the great stone steps, flung into the dim lit portals. Through corridor after corridor he went, from one vast room to another, seeking the hidden treasure. No sign of it anywhere. He fumed and raged. At any moment the lusting hordes would be pouring in, and the great chance gone. If only he could find some lurking courtier, to force the secret from his unwilling mouth! But the great temple was deserted.
Suddenly he whirled. A faint shrieking came to him, queerly strangled. He dashed through door on door, following the sounds. They were gurgling now, gasping throaty noises. A jade-green door intervened. It was bolted. With a heave of his shoulders, it crashed, and Mangu was precipitated into a scene of horror.
Sunk on the ground, in a cowering shapeless mass, was an ancient priest, his claw-like hands raised in trembling supplication, his incredibly wrinkled parchment face a mask of terror. Over him bent grimly, threateningly, three nobles of the Chinese court. So wrapped were they in the business at hand that they did not notice the interruption of the Manchu warrior.
A brazier of charcoal glowed fiery red. The point of a dagger was buried among the embers. One of the nobles bent an evil brow upon the terror-struck old priest. “Oh T’ai Lung, our patience is nigh exhausted. We know you have the talisman hidden. Deliver it to us, or else what has been done to you is but the merest taste of what is yet to come.”
The old man’s hands fluttered feebly. “I have it not, I tell you. I know not where it is.”
“You lie. The Emperor himself, before he went to his heavenly ancestors, told us that you, the Priest of the Temple, were its sole guardian.”
The answer came in a feeble whisper. “It is not true.”
“Very well then, on your own head be it.” The noble snatched the heated dagger out of the flame, raised it.
The shriek of the tortured man brought Mangu to his senses. Out flashed his sword, and with the dreaded Tatar cry on his lips, he launched forward to the attack. The startled conspirators had no chance for their lives. In a trice they were weltering in pools of blood.
The withered priest raised his eyes to his unexpected deliverer in an ecstasy of thankfulness. What he saw caused him to cower in the extremity of despair. For the dreaded Manchu who towered over him transfixed him with cold, piercing eyes. Mangu had not been actuated by feelings of pit
y or mercy when he had rescued this worthless carcass from his torturers. What mattered one member of the accursed race, more or less?
But he had heard enough to convince him that this old man could divulge the hiding place of the wealth he was convinced reposed somewhere in the temple.
“Well, old man,” he said harshly, “some miserable years of life have been saved to you. Where is the hidden treasure of the Mings? Tell me quickly, or it will be the worse for you.”
The wretched priest shrank from his new tormentor. “No, no,” he moaned, “I do not know. I swear it.”
Mangu set his teeth with a snap. “By the demons of the underworld, if you do not speak, and speak now, I know a way to loose that useless tongue of yours.” He lifted the glowing dagger significantly. “Now will you tell me the secret place where the royal gems are stored?”
The set, obdurate face of the ancient one underwent a surprising transformation. “The gems, say you? I thought you meant—” Abruptly he ceased.
“Meant what, food for crows?” the Tatar asked curiously.
“Nay, they were but idle words, O magnificent Lord. The jewels, said you?” He was fawning slimily on Mangu. “Grant me but my few remaining years, and I shall deliver undreamt-of riches into your noble hands.”
“Do as you promise, and I shall not harm you.”
Under the Manchu’s watchful eyes, the old priest tottered to his feet, staggered slowly, painfully to the smooth surface of the wall. Bending over, he pressed something, and a great panel slid silently open.
“Behold, O mighty one, the royal jewels of the Mings. You and all your descendants shall loll in luxurious ease.”
Even in the gloom of the recess, Mangu saw the lambent glow and sparkle of the heaped-up gems. Joyfully he thrust his hands in, brought out great handfuls of the glittering stones. A fierce emotion swept him. In his grasp was wealth beyond all avarice; blood-red rubies large as pigeons’ eggs, green emeralds like the unfathomable sea, diamonds that flashed and coruscated, curiously carved amethysts and smooth jade.
Space Lawyers: A Collaborative Collection Page 23