by Paul Darrow
Avon stood and faced him. “There’s a nice irony to the situation,” he said.
Pruth smiled. “Gilpin has handed to me the instrument of his own destruction.”
“Is he still on Gamma 15?”
“Yes. He will remain there until I tell him otherwise. I’ll send him a telegraph stating that you have agreed to join with us in our contraband schemes. He will be quite unsuspecting when you return to him.”
Avon said, “It shouldn’t take more than a few Earth days to kill him and then come back here. Once I’ve completed your task, what’s to stop you handing me over to the authorities and claiming any reward for yourself?”
Pruth made a dismissive gesture, then smiled disarmingly. “Nothing! This is when mutual trust comes into play. However, to ease your mind, I will provide you with fresh documentation before you leave. You see? I am prepared to give you something that can be used in evidence against me should you feel betrayed.”
“Will Gilpin have backup?”
Pruth seemed surprised by the question. “No. He will be alone.”
Avon paced the room like a cat.
Pruth poured himself another glass of wine. His hand was unsteady.
Avon stopped pacing. “This seems a little too—how shall I say?—a little too contrived for my liking.”
“A happy coincidence that permits the satisfaction of our mutual requirements.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Avon said acidly. “How shall I kill him?”
“I leave that to you.”
“I expect you require proof of his death?”
“Naturally.”
Avon smiled, but said nothing.
The Martian leaned forward. “I want his eyes. Bring me his green eyes.” Pruth’s own eyes glowed flame red.
2
Avon left the Martian’s house ostensibly to prepare himself for his return to Gamma 15 and the assassination of Clay Gilpin.
In reality, he melted into the overpopulated, rundown section of Saturn Major where prostitutes, pimps and other human debris congregated.
Once he was alone, he permitted himself a wry smile at the tutor’s amateurish behavior.
Avon had been around too long and had been betrayed too many times to be easily taken in, and Pruth, for all his intellect, had been less then beguiling.
Avon thought he understood the system that was being worked with Clay Gilpin.
Many of the fugitives from the wars for Uranus would find their way to Raphael and her moons where Gilpin’s team of informers, such as Gerasa, would point them towards the pilot so that he could assess their worth in bounty, alive or dead.
Any “runners” of whom Gilpin was not sure he would pass on to Pruth. The Martian’s computers would do the rest. Then, pretending to be of assistance, he would send them back to Gilpin for annihilation or capture. Provided, of course, that he had established they were worth the effort.
Pruth had tried a subtler gambit with Avon. The attempt to convince him that he was being hired to kill the very man who would undoubtedly seek to kill him was a clever touch. But not clever enough.
Avon wondered how many fugitives had had to die to pay for Pruth’s extravagant life-style and Gilpin’s sleek spacecraft.
Avon paused for thought.
It would seem that none of the papers he had so painstakingly acquired would be of any use to him now. He could hardly afford to trust Gilpin’s forger and it was a cast-iron certainty that he could not trust the Martian.
His one chance of returning to Earth would be to fly himself there, and in order to do that he required a space vehicle. The one person capable of providing him with one was Clay Gilpin.
Avon, who rarely missed anything, had watched closely as the pilot had brought them into Gamma 15 and he felt sure that, with the aid of the on-board computer, he could control the ship alone.
However, the distance involved would be a problem. Gilpin’s machine, though modified, could never be expected to reach Earth without further adjustments and extra fuel. He could not afford the time for the former and dared not risk attempting to secure the latter.
He made a swift calculation. With clever handling and some luck, he might manage to pilot the craft to within the Clouds of Magellan where any number of Earth satellites, man-made and launched into Earth orbit in the previous century, could provide him with other means of completing his journey.
Having made up his mind to pursue this course of action, he set out for the Saturn Major shuttle terminal. He would return to Gamma 15 and claim Gilpin’s spacecraft. He was quite prepared to kill the pilot to get it.
He again permitted himself a smile when he realized that Pruth’s influence allowed him to move freely in the planet’s capital. It was when he reached the satellite that his real problems would begin.
As he expected, the flight passed without incident and the shuttle set him down among the gloomy outbuildings of Gamma 15’s landing station.
Almost immediately, it took off again, the blast from its lifting rockets causing a miniature dust storm and a vibration that shook the shabby service area.
Avon passed through the security cordon without difficulty and made his way to the docking bays in search of Gilpin and, more important, his spacecraft.
He found them both in what appeared to be an otherwise deserted building and the pilot greeted him like a long-lost friend. A reaction that put Avon momentarily off his guard.
“Pruth telegraphed that you were coming back,” Gilpin said enthusiastically. “You impressed him. He thinks we can work together.”
Avon said nothing, but his eyes searched for the pilot’s inevitable backup team.
Gilpin caught his mood and frowned. “What’s wrong?” he enquired.
Avon, attempting to appear more casual than he felt, leaned against the nose cone of the spacecraft and gave his potential adversary his complete attention.
“The Martian sent me to kill you,” he said, smiling like a crocodile.
For a moment, Gilpin seemed taken aback, then he laughed his high-pitched laugh. “I knew you were a rare man,” he said, “but now I know you are an honest one.”
Avon said nothing, but his eyes were as black as pitch. He exuded an air of menace.
The pilot’s laughter faded and he braced himself as if to repel an assault. Avon did not move a muscle.
Gilpin’s green eyes narrowed. “You won’t find it easy to fulfill the contract,” he said.
Avon said, “I must be worth quite a lot for you to be going to so much trouble.”
Gilpin snorted. “Less than some, a good deal more than others.” He assumed a sly expression. “Congratulations on catching on so quickly.”
Avon shrugged. “It wasn’t difficult. You’re an amateur at this game.”
The pilot stiffened. “You’re very confident,” he said. “Perhaps too confident!”
Just then, two Subsidiaries emerged like wraiths from the interior of the spacecraft. For a moment, there was a terrible stillness.
Very slowly, Avon shifted away from the nose cone and turned to face them. Then, in no more time than it takes to blink an eye, he ducked under the machine and rolled into a position that placed the body of the ship between him and his adversaries. He guessed they would not dare fire on him for fear of hitting Gilpin or the spaceship.
He unsheathed his twin-bladed knife with serrated edge. This would be a silent encounter.
The first Subsidiary made a serious error. It ducked after him wielding a vicious-looking scimitar, but Avon had no difficult parrying its wild slashing motion, and his hard fingers curled round the creature’s throat while his knife plunged into its stomach and twisted upwards into its artificial heart. It wailed like a banshee as it died.
Avon smiled grimly. He was right when he considered Gilpin an amateur. But amateurs could sometimes make an unexpected move.
He crept slowly along the outer wall of the building, making sure that he stayed in the shadows.
&nbs
p; Suddenly, the lights went out and there was an almost complete darkness. Only the gray outline of the spaceship was at all visible.
Avon stood, his back to the wall, his body tense and waiting.
He did not have to wait long. The other Subsidiary came at him from the side and Avon gasped as its scimitar gashed his left arm and drew blood.
A cloud of agony clutched at him but, with a supreme effort, he braced himself against the wall and flung himself forward. He and the Subsidiary crashed to the floor. The scimitar locked between the twin blades of his knife, the Subsidiary’s foul breath gushing into his face, Avon slowly forced its head back, the fingers of his bloody left hand gouging its eyes.
After a few moments, the Subsidiary breathed no more, but Avon administered the coup de grace, slashing it across the throat.
Two down and one to go. Maybe!
Avon tried hard to control his heavy breathing and, with a piece of cloth ripped from his tunic, formed a tourniquet that halted the flow of blood from his arm. Blood that poured through the fingers of his hand.
Gilpin’s laugh broke the stillness and invaded the dark. “Come out, Avon, wherever you are!” his voice taunted.
Avon spat blood. For an amateur, the pilot wasn’t doing too badly. But now he was alone. Or was he?
Avon waited. If nothing else, he had the patience of a saint.
Besides, he had guessed, and guessed right, that he was worth more to Pruth alive than dead. He would wait.
It seemed an eternity, but could not have been more than a few minutes, before the lights flashed on again and Gilpin, in a more reasonable voice said, “This is very silly. Why don’t we face each other? I’m sure we can come to a satisfactory arrangement!”
Avon thought it was time to move. Reversing the tactic that had drawn the Subsidiaries to him, he rolled back under the nose cone, sprang to his feet and, having gauged Gilpin’s position from the sound of his voice, flung his knife like a javelin. It struck the pilot in the neck and he went down as if he had been poleaxed.
“Like I said,” hissed Avon through gritted teeth, “an amateur!”
It was Gilpin’s turn to spit blood. “If you knew, why did you come back?” he gasped.
Avon conquered the pain in his left arm and withdrew his knife. The pilot screamed in agony.
“You made a mistake,” Avon said. “Now you have to live, or rather die, with it.”
The green eyes flashed. “I’m not dead yet,” Gilpin said and, with a superhuman effort, raised himself to his feet. He swayed for a second then, with what was almost a swagger, turned his back.
A single gunshot rang out. Gilpin, like a gymnast executing a slow fall, drifted to the floor. Dead before he got there, he had fulfilled half his prophecy. He had been shot in the back in a dingy location.
Avon whirled round. At the entrance to the hangar stood the whore, Gerasa. Her gun was pointed at him.
Avon smiled. The woman shuddered and the weapon fell from her nerveless fingers. With the grace of a ballet dancer, Avon scooped it up.
The woman started to cry.
Avon, unaccustomed to tears, stood quite still, undecided as to whether to shoot her or hand her back the gun.
Gerasa dried her eyes, sniffed and gazed at him as if he were a visitor from another planet. Which, of course, he was.
Avon handed her the weapon. the elation he had felt after dealing so effectively with Gilpin and his Subsidiaries was gone. He had merely postponed the good day on which he would die.
Gerasa tried to be coy. “I don’t have much to offer,” she said, “but you can have it if you’ll take me with you.”
“You don’t know where I’m going,” he said.
“It makes no difference.”
“Why did you kill him?” Avon asked, indicating Gilpin’s corpse.
The whore didn’t answer.
“Were you supposed to finish me off if they couldn’t manage it?”
She nodded.
“What made you change you mind?”
Gerasa moved close to him, placed her arms round his neck and stared into his eyes. “Surely you don’t have to ask,” she said.
Avon pulled her even closer. They kissed savagely. He took her there and then, on the dank floor of the hangar, amidst the blood and debris of the fight. She gasped and went limp beneath him like a rag doll. Avon dragged her to her feet. He caressed her neck. “You may die with me,” he said. “Do you realize that?”
She shook her head and smiled.
Almost immediately, she proved her worth to him by stooping to Gilpin’s body and performing a rapid search of the pockets of his tunic.
With a hiss of triumph, she produced a small plastic card with numerals and digits printed on it. “His computer card,” she cried. “You can control this spacecraft with it.” She handed it to him.
Avon frowned. He couldn’t get over the fact that his demolition of Gilpin’s plan had been achieved with relative ease. Perhaps Pruth was cleverer than he had given him credit for.
He took out his twin-bladed knife and it glistened in the neon light from above. He stooped and cut out Gilpin’s green eyes.
The whore didn’t flinch or move a muscle, merely watched, fascinated.
“For the Martian,” Avon said. “Proof of Gilpin’s death.” He looked at her steadily. “What was your arrangement with him?”
“Who?”
“Pruth.”
“I don’t know him.”
“But you were in on the deal with Gilpin!”
“Yes.”
“Passing on fugitives who might be worth something?”
“Yes.”
“Sticking with me won’t be so profitable.”
She shrugged.
Avon studied the computer card, then handed it back to her. “You place it in the computer,” he said. “I'll wait outside.”
Gerasa did not move, but Avon saw the furtive look that clouded her eyes.
“How long have you and Pruth been planning to do away with Gilpin?” he asked casually.
She laughed and it was almost infectious.
“He told me you were likely to be the cleverest of them all,” she said.
Avon studied the card. “I take it this would cause an explosion once placed in the on-board computer?”
She nodded.
Avon sighed. “Now what?”
“Pruth wants you to take Gilpin's place.”
“You mean, until I outlive my usefulness, as he did?” he said, indicating the body.
“Something like that.”
Avon crossed to the entrance to the hangar and looked out. “Did Pruth arrange that no one would interfere with what was going on in here?”
“Yes.”
“He has considerable influence.”
“Yes.”
Avon smiled wolfishly. “A pity!”
“What is?”
“Before I left his house, I placed a miniature phosphorous mine in a location where he won't find it. It will explode in about twelve hours. He should be asleep, so he won't feel a thing.”
For a moment, the girl seemed to doubt him. Then she laughed. “In which case, I'm making the right decision in going along with you,” she said.
Avon threw Gilpin's eyes at her feet. “You might as well have these.”
She picked them up and put them in a pocket of her blouse.
“Where's the genuine computer card?” Avon asked.
She studied him for a moment. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don't.”
She seemed to make up her mind quickly and extracted another card from Gilpin's tunic. She handed it to him.
Avon climbed into the space machine and swiftly refamiliarized himself with its interior. Very carefully, he placed the card and the ship's computer came alive.
The question, “Command?” flashed on its screen.
Avon punched in “Prepare for flight” and the machine flashed back, “Very well.”
Avon
made his way to the hatch and jumped to the ground, then made his way to the mechanism that would operate the hangar doors. “Will anyone try and stop me leaving?” he asked Gerasa.
“No. Pruth's influence will hold good. Until he dies, that is.”
“Which gives us twelve hours. Maybe a little more,” he said as he opened the hangar doors. “Get aboard!” he added.
“Where are we going?” Gerasa said.
“It's a mystery tour.”
“I don't like mysteries.”
“Well, you're going to have to live with this one.”
“Or die here and now?” she asked.
Avon did not reply. He didn't need to.
They climbed aboard and he instructed the computer to close all hatches, to taxi outside the hangar and, once in flight, to set a course that would clear Gamma 15's orbit and bypass Saturn Major's space lanes.
Through the cockpit video window, he could see that the landing area staff were showing some curiosity in his activity. He ordered the computer to maximize its efficiency. In other words, to get out of there fast.
The machine complied. The spacecraft’s vertical takeoff rockets flamed and activated and, creating a vibration to match that of the shuttle that had brought Avon to Gamma 15, it lifted off, increased speed and was launched.
“Truly,” Gerasa asked, “where are you going?”
“Truly,” Avon replied “I’m going home!”
3
Gamma 15’s defence system picked them up immediately and a video telegraph ordered them to return to the shuttle base or face the consequences.
Avon, strapped into the pilot’s seat, Gerasa peering anxiously over his shoulder, remembered how Gilpin had brought them in to the satellite.
He flew the spacecraft as low as he dared, given the contours of the landscape, and exhorted the computer to give maximum power. The machine responded.
Faster and faster, the spaceship hurled itself through the satellite’s gravitational pull, as if it had discovered a life of its own. As if it was a huge and powerful dog that had just been unleashed.