Torm turned to the Colonel, still vibrating with anger. "And as for you, Colonel, I think you'd better start facing facts for a change, you and your Earth people. I'm fighting a battle here to keep a real fire from starting in this colony, but I'm losing it. I can't fight it by myself much longer."
Colonel Benedict's eyes were cold. "I have only one job here—to make certain that the supply of ruthenium for Earth is not jeopardized. I'm afraid I'm not much interested in your petty internal struggles for power. They don't interest me except where they affect the supply from the mines."
"Then you won't co-operate with me?"
"Before I can do anything, I need to see the whole picture here in the colony," the Colonel snapped. "So far, an attack has been made on my life and that of my son, and I'm afraid that I can't trust you, either, Mr. Torm. Not with the record you have behind you on this colony. I'm afraid the problems here will have
to be settled on Earth terms, regardless of how the colony feels." He turned to Tuck, and took a deep breath. "Right now, I think we'd better see to getting settled in quarters."
Torm stared at them for a long moment, and for the briefest second Tuck thought he saw a light of weary desperation in the big man's eyes. Then finally he stood up, hardly looking at the Colonel and Tuck, and silently led them toward the stairs.
Chapter 7Revolt!
I
UCK AWOKE with a jerk in the semidarkness of the little room. He sat up sharply, the whisper of a very unpleasant dream still drifting in his mind. For a moment of panic he wondered where he was; then he saw the crude gray concrete wall curved in over the bed at a sharp angle, and the brightly painted canvas ceiling of the Torms' cabin. He stood up on the cold, uneven floor, and felt every joint in his body scream in protest. He whacked the rough sleeping pallet with his fist, then wrung his hand until the pain went away. This was a bed? A horizontal board covered by a lumpy plastic-covered mattress which couldn't have been an inch thick anywhere! Tuck groaned, and reached for his clothes, glancing over at his father's sleeping place. It was empty; the Colonel must have slept even worse than he had! And yet, there was an edge of worry that nibbled at Tuck's mind, and he started rapidly to dress.
Details of the previous evening began to return. There was the conference with Anson Torm the night before—and there was the prisoner. Tuck's gloom deep-
ened. There was a man to watch out for! His mind's eye held a sharp picture of the twisted, bitter face of John Cortell as he had strode away with a guard on either side. Both the Colonel and Torm had been angry at the end of that meeting, so angry that they barely had spoken on the way from the meeting room. Tuck recalled his own feeling of futility and helplessness as he had followed the two men down the rough road to the small, hutlike cabin that Torm called his home. It was wrong—everything was wrong. From the first meeting with Torm, something had been awry, some aura of deadly suspicion in the air, yet think as he would, Tuck could not pinpoint it. Torm had shown them their room, and then had left them to their own devices while he went to meet his wife at the infirmary, and to see David.
"But Dad, you didn't even listen to him," Tuck had protested as he and his father started unpacking their bags. "I know that we have to be careful, but he was telling the truth, Dad—"
The Colonel sat down, head in his hand. "I wish I could believe that, but I just can't."
"But can't you meet him halfway?"
"There's too much at stake to meet them halfway, son. You heard what Torm said tonight."
Tuck nodded eagerly. "Yes, I did—and if it's true, it makes things add up. The rumors, the ambush in the gorge—"
"How about the bomb in the letter? How about the smuggled supplies? No, there are too many things that don't add up."
Tuck sobered. "It's just wrong, somehow. There's something wrong, something we don't know."
"I know. But just suppose the colony is planning a revolt, open warfare, real trouble. And then, before they're fully prepared, they get word that we are coming out to investigate. They have agents back on Earth, agents who have been arranging the smuggled shipments for years. Suppose they made a desperate attempt on my life, before I even left Earth—"
"Well, somebody did. But it didn't work."
The Colonel's face hardened. "It would have worked. It was a chance in a million that you happened to be home and detect the letter. But you were, so we arrive here. And what happens? Torm appears at the ship, and spends two hours stalling me with denials and accusations. Suppose they need time—maybe just a day or so more to prepare themselves completely for a revolt. Suppose it's essential to keep us calmed down, out of their hair. What do they do? They carefully stage an ambush, to throw suspicion away from Torm onto a scapegoat. So then, according to the little scenario they've prepared, I'm supposed to confide in Torm, trust him implicitly, tell him everything he wants to know, and they throw the scapegoat in jail so it looks like the trouble is under control, and everything is just rosy—until the rest of the colony has time to finish preparations. And then, boom! Just like that." The Colonel looked up at his son, a twinkle in his eyes. "They're clever, Tuck. They're got the scenario all planned out just perfectly. Only your old man isn't going along with the scenario quite as it was planned—"
"You—you really think this has just been an elaborate cover-up?"
The Colonel shrugged. "I don't know. We're dealing with desperate men."
"You think Anson Torm could be a party to a scheme of that sort?" Tuck stared at his father.
The Colonel stood up, slowly. "You like the man, don't you?"
Tuck's eyes dropped. "I know. I shouldn't, I suppose. It—it doesn't seem right. But I can't help it."
"Well, I'll tell you a little secret, son." The Colonel's eyes were sad. "I like him, too. And that's what's going to be toughest of all. Because I think he's lying in his teeth, and I just don't dare take a chance that he isn't."
They had finished unpacking then, and when the Torms returned there was little conversation. Tuck had not realized how extremely hungry he was, and he watched Mrs. Torm silently from the corner as she prepared the simple meal, and set it down on the table for them. She was a small, quiet woman, looking far older than her years, her face creased with anxiety, and she watched the men with sad, weary eyes, as they ate in silence. Twice she tried unsuccessfully to start pleasant conversation, only to see it dwindle. Finally she said, "I know that there was trouble on the way here, Colonel, and I'm sorry. But I will not have fighting and bitterness carried into my house. There's enough of that in the streets and mines. I want love and friendship in my house." She smiled suddenly, looking years younger. "We have visitors from Earth so seldom. Perhaps you could tell us how things are—back on Earth."
It had been easier, after that. Tuck had joined his father in an account of the new things that had happened back home. The meal was plain, but prepared by an expert hand, and they found the atmosphere in the house at the end of the meal quite different than before the meal. Finally the Colonel brought out his pipe and filled it, then offered the pouch to Anson. The old man's eyes lighted, and he went to a cabinet against the wall, dug deep on a shelf, and came out with an old, old pipe, cracked and blackened with age. "My father's," he said, as he filled it. "Tobacco doesn't come to us very often—there's little room for it on the cargo ships."
The Colonel turned to Mrs. Torm. "And David? How is the boy?"
"He was resting when we saw him. The doctor said there weren't any broken bones or concussion. It just shook him up, but he'll have to stay there a few days, just to make sure—"
Tuck sighed, almost audibly, making a mental note to inquire the way to the infirmary first thing next morning. They had talked on about Earth until very late; then Tuck and his father had retired to their cubicle, set back from the main room of the hut and closed off with a coarse blanket.
"Sorry we can't give you more privacy, but walls are expensive to build," Torm had said apologetically. "Someday we'll have real houses he
re, I hope. For the time being, I guess you'll be tired enough to sleep."
And now, as Tuck put on his shoes, he wished he had been. Instead of sleeping, he had tossed and turned, his mind spinning over the previous day's events. His father and Torm hadn't spoken of the affairs of the colony all evening, and had seemed almost to be warming toward each other. Yet Tuck couldn't erase his father's words from his mind. They are clever men, desperate men, and this may just be part of their plan. For hours he had turned the situation over in his mind, and then had sunk into an uneasy sleep, no closer to the answer than before—
Once dressed, he pushed back the blanket and strode into the main room. The pale morning light was streaming in the open door, and Mrs. Torm was busy in the far end of the room that served as a kitchen. She smiled and nodded him to a table. "You're deserted. Your father and Anson left just after daybreak. They're going to tour the mines and check the production schedules today—"
"But they're up so early!"
"You'll have to get used to the short nights—you slept eight hours, and our nights are only six hours long." She set Tuck's breakfast plate down before him. "You'll find it getting dark long before you expect it, too, until you get accustomed to it. The days are shorter." She poured out the milk concentrate and dried, pressed bacon in front of him. The food had a strange look; Tuck tasted it hesitantly, then tore into it like a hungry bear. It seemed like the most delicious breakfast he had ever eaten.
Mrs. Torm left before he had finished, brushing her hair back from her tired face. She explained that she was responsible for the trading post store three days out of six. Tuck finished breakfast slowly, taking in every detail of the rude cabin that he had missed in his weariness the night before. Once again he was struck by the simplicity, the absence of any of the little decorations and refinements that were to be found in every college dormitory room, or every apartment at home. At the far end of the room hung the only picture in the whole place—a gray, faded photograph of a large, strong-faced man, bearing a striking resemblance to Anson Torm, yet even older, with a flowing beard and a fine wide forehead. Probably David's grandfather, he thought—also a leader of the mining colony years before. And how about David's greatgrandfather? Also a leader? Probably. There seemed to be some sort of family succession. That would mean that sometime David might be in line for leadership here. Tuck stared at the picture for a long time. What about the great-great-grandfather? A convict? A murderer? One of the original miners, sent out here to the prison colony, back while Earth was still powered exclusively by atomics? Possibly. There was no way to tell, short of asking, and it struck Tuck that that was hardly the proper sort of question to ask.
"Isn't this a little late to be rolling out of the sack?" The voice boomed from the doorway, and Tuck dropped his fork with a clatter. With a roar of laughter, David Torm was in the room, hands on his hips, grinning broadly at Tuck. "I always heard you folks on Earth were late sleepers—"
Tuck reddened and picked up his fork again, feeling foolish for his sudden start. "I wouldn't say that. You just run a short day out here." He stared at the blond-haired youth. David was even huskier than Tuck had remembered, a powerfully built lad who was never still, always moving. There was a solidity about him that Tuck, with his slender, wiry build, couldn't help but envy. David would be a good friend to have around in a free-for-all, and an unpleasant foe indeed. "I thought you were dying," Tuck said, his eyes twinkling. "Who let you out?"
David chuckled, and started preparing some breakfast with an amazing clatter of pans. "Leetle Davey let himself out. Through the roof. You'd think I'd broken every bone in my body—"
"Ah, well," said Tuck. "They'll just come and drag you back again—"
"They'll need a half-track to do it!"
There was a flicker of concern in Tuck's eyes. "All joking aside—are you sure you feel all right?"
David grinned. "Now I ask you—what kind of pilot would I be if I couldn't crash land a little crate like the Snooper without getting hurt? I ask you."
"Well, you were slightly unconscious, no matter what. You scared your father out of ten years."
David shrugged his broad shoulders good-naturedly, and sank down to breakfast. "I've been doing that ever since I learned to walk. Dad's used to it by now. Anyway, there wasn't anything else to do."
"Then you knew there was a trap?"
David shrugged. "It looked like a good bet. I heard that Cortell had something up his sleeve, and it looked to me like a perfect setup for him to wing dad and you folks at the same time—so I just kept you company on the way back." His blue eyes caught Tuck's and held them gravely. "You should have let me talk to dad, back there on the ship. He could have taken a different route back to the colony."
Tuck reddened. "I know. I'm sorry—really I am. I thought you were spying or something—maybe planning to blow us up yourself—"
David threw back his head and roared. "What, and miss a chance to show off the Snooper? Everybody thinks its a big joke around here—Davey's Coffin, they call it."
"Where did it come from?"
"Just an old junk lifeboat that was lying around the colony."
"You fixed it up yourself?"
"Sure. Rebuilt the engine completely. Only jet engine in the Solar System that will fly in Titan atmosphere and nowhere else!"
"What did you do to it?" Tuck felt excitement stir.
David grinned. "Trade secret. Just modified the motor a little, that's all. Everyone said it'd never take off. They just didn't know leetle Davey." He tossed the metal dishes in the sink. "Don't say anything to mother —but I think we can get permission from dad to go out and try to fix up the Snooper tomorrow—if you'd want to give me a hand."
"You mean try to make it go again?" Tuck looked dubious. "Do you think it's possible?"
"Won't hurt to try. You ever play around with rocket motors?"
Tuck chuckled. "I've taken so many jet scooters apart and made them go that I could do it in my sleep."
"Good! Maybe between us we can dig it out. But we'll have to wait until dad gets used to my being up and around. He's slow sometimes. Want to take a look around the colony, for the time being?"
"Say, that would be great. I was noticing the big beehive affair in the center of the dome—what is it?" Tuck pulled on his jacket, and stepped out into the street with the other youth, warming to him as they talked. Could a person like that actually be born and grow up in a colony of thieves and murderers? It seemed incredible. They started across the street and up a narrow lane between the cabins toward the odd-looking building. "That's a crude-ore refinery," David was saying. "Can't ship crude ore back to Earth—they haven't got enough ships to carry it. They only get a few grams of pure metal from a ton of ore, and you know about tonnage and pay loads. But we don't have enough power to completely refine the ore, here in the colony, so we split the job halfway. That beehive is the main refining oven, where we break the metal away from the largest bulk of rock." He pointed to the thick metal pipe that led from the building down into the ground. "That pipe carries the slag out about three miles from the colony, where there's a big gorge. We just dump it there. When the gorge gets filled, well run it to another gorge. That's one thing about this place—there's plenty of waste space around."
Tuck shook his head as they walked along the rough street.
"I've been thinking," he said. "I don't see how you live out here."
"We're used to it. You probably wouldn't last six weeks—you've had it too soft back on Earth. We do what we can to make a litde Earth to live in—even if it doesn't seem much like Earth—"
Tuck's eyes were filled with wonder, as they walked. The colony seemed roughly similar to the picture he had in his mind of the old colonial towns in the "wild west" he had loved to read about when he was younger —except that these cabins were made of black rock hewn from the cliffs, and the dust in the road was coal black, and instead of a hot western sun, there was a dull, cold, yellow sun, and the much bigger
, brighter planet Saturn giving luster to the landscape. Here and there was a small half-track sitting in the road near a cabin—a far cry from the horses of the days gone by— but there were the same men, with the craggy, weather-beaten faces and powerfully muscled arms, the same plainly dressed women, cheerful even in such gloomy surroundings as these. Occasionally they passed boys and girls their own age, who nodded to David in greeting. As the boys trudged along, Tuck's confusion grew and grew. This colony—a strange place, yes, but basically it was just another town. And the people seemed ordinary enough, just like other people. His face must have registered his feelings.
David Torm looked at him, and burst out laughing. "You look like you've swallowed a frog. What's wrong?"
Tuck shook his head. "It's—so different from what I expected—"
There was mischief in David's eyes. "Not even one murder on the street so far, eh? No two-headed monsters—why, we didn't even have our best family daggers out to eat breakfast with—"
Tuck flushed hotly and started to reply, then closed his mouth. "I don't see what's so funny," he said.
"But you're surprised. What did you expect?"
"I—I don't know. But not this"
David Torm grinned. "Of course, we're on our good behavior while you're here. Normally we go around clawing at each other, and gnawing our food uncooked. And every night or so we have war dances and blood orgies, and plot attacks on Earth, and plan the huge massacres we'll have when we get power enough to start a war with Earth—oh, don't look so surprised! I know all about the stories they tell you. They sound a little silly to us, but we know about them—"
Alan E. Nourse Page 7