by Earl
He spread his hands helplessly.
“Without an AP-gun, there is no conceivable way of escaping. None!”
Hale felt the crushing force of that word. No escape, no revenge against the Five. Never to see Earth again. To die here, of old age, as Dr. Allison was dying.
The scientist was near death, that was obvious. He had been thirty when incarcerated. He was over sixty now, thin, trembling, sickly. His failure to escape had left him a barren shell, without the will to live.
But again and again Hale went over the plans of the prison, as the scientist had revealed them. Doggedly he nursed hope.
“Those remote control doors are the only possibility,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “If the system ever breaks down temporarily—”
“It never does, even for a second,” croaked the old scientist. “The remote control system is as infallible as the motions of the heavenly bodies.”
“Good God, don’t keep saying that!” shrieked Hale.
Three years of dimming hope had taken their toll of his nerves. He was instantly sorry, and took the old man’s hand in apology. Suddenly he squeezed.
“As infallible as the motions—” he repeated, his voice tense. “What was that you told me, a few months ago, about a comet passing between Earth and Moon?”
The old scientist nursed his aching hand.
“The Dawson Comet, discovered nineteen-eighty-nine, is due back this year. I based my figures on data I read. I’m quite positive it will swing between the Earth and Moon for the first time in history. It won’t be captured, however, because of its speed. That should be in the order of—”
“Never mind that,” interrupted Hale. “How close will it pass to Strato-prison?”
The scientist’s mental calculations were rapid. “Almost directly over it, within ninety-five thousand miles.”
“Which way will its tail swing?” Dr. Allison pondered.
“The Moon will be sunward from Earth. Therefore the comet’s tail will swing earthward, toward us.”
“Escape!” Hale yelled the one word in awe.
SHARPENED by solitude and the scientist’s inspiring teachings, Hale’s mind leaped to that conclusion in one blinding stroke.
“What?” Dr. Allison demanded, stupefied.
“Escape, I tell you! The remote control is via radio waves. Electrical impulses. What is a comet’s tail made of? Electrified particles—ions. When these sweep over the globe, there will be no harm done, of course—except to the remote-control. It will be thrown out of working order by electrical interference!”
Dr. Allison nodded almost instantly.
“Of course. I should have thought of that myself. The tail’s ions will produce a barrage of static interference for thousands of miles. The remote control radio impulses from Earth will be shot through with holes. The doors will be opened—by the comet’s tail!”
They looked at each other, hardly daring to believe their quick deduction. But in their eyes had sprung again the burning fires of hope.
Four months later, when the comet was due, two tense figures stood before a locked door. They had quitted Hale’s cell, crawled through the tunnel, and emerged in the lower passageway. It led upward to freedom!
“The comet should be due any minute now,” whispered Dr. Allison. He had checked his mental figures a dozen times. “When its tail sweeps past, we’ll have just thirty-two minutes of open doors. We’ll have to run. The distance to the top of the globe, through the spiral passage next to the hull, is almost a mile. If we see any guards, we throw ourselves flat and pray. Luckily this is exactly between shifts. The passage should be almost deserted. Is that clear?”
Hale nodded. His heart hammered in anticipation, but outwardly he was cool. All his faculties were alert for this desperate gamble. He knew he would never again have another chance. Comets do not obligingly sweep by very often in one lifetime.
“Listen!”
They heard it then—a slight crackling noise, like static. Somewhere up above, beyond their steel prison walls, a comet was majestically sailing between Earth and Moon. Its long, tenuous tail of ions was engulfing the prison globe. A radio aerial was crackling under the deluge, as if signals were coming from Earth. The comet was opening all locks except those of the cells, which were directly under the warden’s control.
Hale pushed forward against the door. It swung open squeakily on unoiled hinges. The way here led upward to the cell-blocks. But Dr. Allison turned the other way, to the passage that hugged the hull and avoided the center of activity.
Grim and hopeful they raced down the dimly lit corridor.
Soon it became a steep upward climb. The floor was corrugated for foot traction. Although the giant globe itself rested weightless in a zero-gravity field, all things within it were still subject to the gravity of Earth. It was as though they were ants suspended above ground on a shelf.
FOR fifteen minutes they sped on, opening and closing door after door that the comet had unlocked. They met no guards. It seemed almost too easy.
“We’re more than half-way,” panted Dr. Allison. “We’ll make it if our luck holds out—”
At each door, Hale in the lead cautiously opened it and peered out for guards. He drew back suddenly at one door.
“Two guards standing in the corridor ahead, talking,” he whispered.
“We’ll have to wait and hope they go.”
Dr. Allison’s eyes darted ahead and back constantly.
Minutes passed. Precious minutes while the comet’s wide tail drew nearer to its final leave-taking. Cursing under his breath, Hale kept one eye on the two lounging guards ahead. They seemed in no hurry to go. They were off-duty, apparently, and were rapt in conversation. If only Hale were armed!
The old scientist trembled.
“We can’t wait much longer,” he said nervously, “or we’ll have locked doors against us.”
He turned, grasping the younger man’s arm tightly. He spoke tersely.
“There’s one chance. You stay here. I’ll go out alone. There is a corridor just ahead that leads to the atomic generator room. I’ll lead them into that. Then the way will be clear for you.”
“Together or not at all!” Hale retorted, shaking his head violently.
“Don’t be a fool!” whispered the old man. “Together we die!”
His old eyes softened suddenly, looking at his young companion.
“I’m old. What would a few hours of liberty on Earth benefit me? But you are young, and in you, I live again. With you go my thirty years of thought and science. Your tomorrow is mine.” He squeezed Hale’s arm. “Good-bye, lad—”
Then, before Hale could act, he sprang forward, swung open the door and leaped out. The door began to swing shut again in Hale’s face. He caught it when it was a few inches of closing. For a moment he leaned his weight forward, to shove it open and leap after the old scientist.
He relaxed, groaning. It was the only hope. Hale knew he would have been more of a fool to leap out than a coward to remain.
From beyond he heard the shouts of the guards, as they spied Dr. Allison’s madly stumbling figure. Peering around the door’s edge, Hale saw the scientist dart into the side corridor. A moment later the two guards had reached the same point and followed, pistols out.
The way—for Hale—was clear. Seconds were precious.
Hale shoved the door aside and raced down the corridor. At the turnoff passage, he heard the rumble and hiss of the mighty atomic generators from the neighboring room. Hale stopped. The passage was short. The open door revealed the huge extent of the chamber, sunk below the level of his eye.
A scene etched itself on his mind.
Dr. Allison had scuttled along the narrow catwalk that overhung the giant generators. The guards now had a clear shot at him. Neutron-charges hissed toward the fleeing scientist.
Abruptly he stopped. He looked both ways, like a trapped animal who sees no way out. At the far end of the catwalk was another guard, al
ready moving forward. A neutron-charge struck the scientist’s leg. He toppled, fell—straight down toward the pulsing grid of a generator.
The guards stiffened, watching. Below, the eyes of the prison workers on shift fastened to the falling body. It struck the flat grid, bounced, rested there. Then flame burst around it, the livid, searing energy of exploding atoms. In seconds the body had vanished, consumed by the frightful powers engulfing it.
DR. ALLISON was gone. Z-9922, the mythical “escaped” prisoner, had finally escaped—into Death.
Hale watched, paralyzed in horrible fascination. He heard the voice of one guard, drifting to him down the passage.
“The fool should have known he couldn’t escape. Who in hell did he think he was, Z-ninety-nine-twenty-two?”
Something within Hale was barely able to choke down hysterical laughter. But the sweeping irony of it faded in his mind as he thought of what it meant to him. A prisoner had escaped his cell, made a dash for freedom, failed. Later they would find Hale’s cell empty. They would finally connect the comet with his escape from his cell. Therefore Richard Hale, Y-1418, was the prisoner who had died on the atomic-grid! There would not even be a search or general alarm. . . .
Dr. Allison had opened the path to freedom in more ways than one. And Hale knew now that the old scientist had deliberately thrown himself on the grid, to be burned beyond recognition. Deliberately he had planned this sacrifice before they even started! For the substitution of identities made certain that there would be no search for Y-1418, neither here nor on Earth!
Hale sped along now, down the deserted corridor. There was still a chance of meeting other guards, and of failing to reach the last door before the comet’s tail left.
But ten minutes later Hale had reached the last door, near the top of Strato-prison, leading into the airlock chambers. Most of the thirty-two minutes were gone.
He was panting, sweated, when he reached the final door. His leg muscles ached from the unaccustomed exertion after three years of cell inactivity. He leaned his weight against the door, turning the handle.
It didn’t open. . . .
It was locked! Too late!
Enraged by this trick of fate, Hale furiously threw himself at the door, but only bruised his shoulders, Then, spent, he looked back, with the fear of the cornered animal chilling his heart. Sooner or later guards would come along, spy him, capture or kill him.
Failure! Tomorrow still leered beyond that locked door, still remote as the Moon. The maddening thought of it nearly brought a scream of torment from him.
He heard a dim murmur of voices from down the corridor. Guards were approaching. In a moment they would come near and see his crouching figure, with no place to hide. . . .
And then Hale’s ears heard grinding behind him. The door gave and he tumbled through. He had sufficient presence of mind to shove it closed immediately. He heard a static splutter from the electric lock, and then a sharp final click. He knew the door was locked now, beyond all human power to open.
Hale lay gasping on the floor. Somehow the door’s lock had reopened for those few seconds, saving him. Perhaps a shred of the comet’s tail, following the main bulk of it, had worked the miracle.
The room he lay in was utterly dark, yet he knew it was large, for his heavy breathing echoed. It was the third and final chamber of the triple air-lock system. In three days, the usual supply ship was due from Earth. He and Dr. Allison had plotted that all so carefully.
The rest, with a little luck, was simple.
CHAPTER X
Free Air!
IF HALE’S first few months in his timeless cell had seemed like an age, the three days he now waited was an eternity. But after eternity would come a new tomorrow!
At last he heard the rumble of an air-lock opening above him. The ship had arrived! Again he heard the movement of mechanism directly over him, as the two halves of his chamber’s lock yawned.
A cyclonic whoosh of air rushed from his chamber to the one above. Hale panted for breath. He watched from behind piled crates as the strato-ship settled down in the lever grip of elevators. Its wheels touched the floor. Overhead the lock doors closed. Air hissed from corner vents, refilling the space with normal pressure. Hale’s discomfort eased.
The pilots and guards stepped from the ship bearing three new prisoners within the walls of the strato-bastille. Hale pitied them. Then he jerked to attention. From the main corridors came a file of prisoners, herded by armed guards.
Again Hale had to resign himself to the whim of chance. By feel, he had long ago picked out the crate he wanted. He crawled in now, among stale smelling opened tin cans. Strato-prison had no disposal of these, save by the returning ship. The cans could not just foe thrown down to Earth.
Hale burrowed to the bottom of the heaped crateful of cans. They covered him completely. The noise could not be heard in the general bustle of the unloading. Some of the sharp edges scratched him, but pain meant nothing to him now.
It seemed like hours before he felt his crate lurch into movement.
“Feels heavy,” grunted one of the prisoners carrying it.
“You’re getting weak,” returned the other sarcastically.
Hale felt the crate bump against the floor, in the ship’s hold. Then the crate slid along roughly, to end up against one wall. Other crates bumped against his.
Hale allowed himself to exult. Luck was playing along with him.
In the hour of delay that followed Hale suffered most. It was the cautious custom, before a ship left, to herd all shifts of prisoners to their cells throughout the giant prison and take the roll-call. Only then could the warden be certain that no prisoner had by some miracle stowed away on the ship.
The roll-call, Hale assured himself, should reveal no absences. Prisoner Y-1418 was not in his cell, of course. He had burned to death on an atomic grid, trying to escape three days before. Somehow, the warden would reason, Y-1418 had escaped from his cell, probably because of the comet’s nearness, since the operators on Earth had complained of interference. But he had been run down and burned on the grid. He hadn’t actually escaped Strato-prison—as 2-9922 had.
Therefore the ship could go. Strato-prison’s record of no escapes—save for 2-9922—was unblemished.
But not till he felt movement of the ship did Hale’s nerves relax. All was well. There had been no alarm. As he felt the powerful surge of rockets speeding the ship up and away from Strato-prison, Hale’s spirits soared. He felt as though a vice that had been squeezing him for three long years had suddenly eased.
“I’m out of Strato-prison! I’m in free air!” he told himself happily.
AN hour later the strato-ship’s wide spiral narrowed down to ordinary air travel in Earth’s atmosphere. Then Hale felt the ship bump to a landing. The hold doors opened. Hands dragged out the crates. From here on, Hale didn’t know what the situation would be, but he did know he would have to be alert as a hunted animal.
He felt his crate carried, then stacked again with the others on the ground.
“Too late to bring them to the slag-melter today,” said a voice. “Tomorrow morning will be all right.”
“Yes, sir.”
The voices moved away and Hale listened to the sounds of a busy airport. Hours later these reached a minimum that indicated it must be the middle of the night. Hale stirred. Like a corpse emerging from its coffin, he struggled.
He had to shove a crate off with his shoulders by main force. It fell to the ground with a clatter of empty cans.
Hale leaped out and crouched behind the crates, peering in all directions. He was at the edge of the airport. No one had noticed in the dark.
Hale stumbled away, hugging the shadows of a building. Beyond lay open land, beyond that, woods in which he could hide safely.
After running madly until the airport could not be seen and he was panting and exhausted, Hale threw himself on the muddy ground. A drenching downpour had started some time before.
WE
T to the skin and shivering, he lay there. He had not eaten for three days. His clothes carried the stench of the unclean crate. His skin was lacerated with a dozen wounds. Every muscle ached from his recent exertions. He had a splitting headache from the sheer physical and mental strain he had gone through.
By all normal standards, he should have been more miserable than the lowliest downtrodden specimen of humanity.
But he knew, instead, that he was at that moment the happiest human being alive!
He lay on his back, his eyes staring into the rain-filled sky. There were no walls above or around him. This was heaven! He caught at the raindrops with his hands and laughed, laughed for long minutes, till sheer weakness stopped him.
Somewhere up above lay somber Strato-prison. The men there did not know that for once a prisoner had truly escaped, that a comet and a man’s life had done the impossible—that down here, in the mud, lay Prisoner Y-1418, with all the world before him.
Hale jumped up suddenly.
“I’m alive again!” he shouted against the swishing of the rain. “Alive! Alive!”
He fell in the mud again, singing, laughing, as near to a madness of joy as he had once been to a madness of despair. . . .
Dawn brought the warm heat of a summer day. Hale had gained control of himself. His mind was calm, cool, calculating. He dried his clothes. He had carried one of the cans along with him. With its sharp, jagged edge he laboriously trimmed his prison beard and wild mane of hair kneeling before a puddle of rainwater for a mirror. Finished, he was still a strange looking being, but no worse perhaps than a wandering tramp.
He cut the numbers “Y-1418” from the back of his denim outfit and ground it into the dirt with his heel. But without proper equipment he could not erase the numbers tattooed on his chest.
He left the spot, making his way to the edge of the woods. His step was springy, his spirits sang. The chirp of birds was music from a higher plane of existence. The dawn clouds and blue sky were beauty that ached. The trees were friendly creatures that whispered greetings to him.