But the fall proved disastrous. Horton’s men reached Pearce before he had time to regain his feet, and their clubbed weapons thudded into his head.
Blinding light, an instant of pain, and then he was hurtling into an infinite blackness.
THE SENSATION of being shaken brought Pearce back to consciousness. He opened his eyes, then winced and closed them again as pain began to throb in his battered head. He pressed his lips together tightly, steeling himself, then sat up. He glanced around him.
Billings, kneeling nearby, was wringing his hands in misery. “Thank heavens you’re alive!” he wailed. “I was beginning to think you were done for. Pearce, you’ve got to do something. Horton is out there talking to a bunch of natives. I . . . I think he’s bargaining with them to kill us!”
Pearce struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily to the single window of the littered storage hut in which he and Billings had been imprisoned. He peered through the grimy pane.
In the middle of the mining camp was a chilling sight. Backed by his men, Horton was talking to the leader of a group of huge, fantastically decorated Venusian natives. Occasionally the other’s voice penetrated into the hut. He was gesturing expressively and speaking in a combination of pidgin English and the simple, hissing Venusian tongue.
Billings’ words seemed too horribly true.
But after watching and listening intently, Pearce revised his earlier opinion of the conference. Several times he caught the words “whiskey” and “pay”. His forehead puckered.
The Venusians wanted whiskey, it seemed. And they wanted it as payment for something they had done for Horton. At first it appeared to Pearce that Horton was stalling them off, but later he realized that the man was refusing to consent to something the Venusians wanted.
And then Pearce learned what it was. The Venusians wanted a larger amount of whiskey than they had formerly received from Horton. This was in payment for some sort of service they had rendered him.
“Lord, I see it now!” Pearce breathed. “The whole thing is obvious enough. But why does Horton want to—” He broke off, whirling to Billings. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Desperately he searched along the walls of the hut for some means of egress. But even as he did so he knew it was hopeless. Like all the dwellings on Venus, the hut was a prefabricated structure, built of sections of tremendously tough fibreboard. Only the door was vulnerable, and to try to break it open would warn Horton of their attempted escape.
Pearce’s eyes fell upon the rubbish littered floor. He dropped to hands and knees and began searching through it for something he could use as a weapon or as a tool. Suddenly his hand encountered something incredible—an empty pneumatic holster from which a belt dangled. As he shifted it in his hands, a small object dropped from the interior of the holster. Pearce stared down at it for a moment, then picked it up.
“Why, that’s a notebook!” Billings said.
Pearce nodded slowly. On the front cover, in faded gold letters, was the name John Denham.
Pearce had an eerie sensation. He felt as though he stood on the brink of something strange and tragic. The holster and belt, as well as the notebook, had clearly belonged to John Denham, Sandra’s father. They were here—in Horton’s mining camp. And John Denham had mysteriously disappeared.
With Billings peering curiously over his shoulder, Pearce began leafing through the notebook. Part of it had been used as a memorandum, part as a record. The most important pages were those John Denham had used as a sort of diary.
There was an awed quality about those minutes during which Pearce read the notebook that he was never to forget. It was as though he had been given a glimpse beyond the veil separating the living from the dead. He was aware of Billings’ breath rustling past his ear, the rising and lowering of Horton’s voice outside, the hissing sounds made by the natives. He was aware of them, yet they came as if from a remote distance. For him at the moment there was only the scrawled writing in the notebook.
THE DATE at which he began reading was that of some eight months before, Earth time.
“May 22: So excited I can hardly restrain myself from blurting out the news to the boys. But later I might be proved wrong and would look like a fool. So the only one I’m going to tell of my find is this notebook.
“Suffering sunspots, but I’m excited. If I’m right, I’m going to make mining history here on Venus. And a hell of a lot of money, too. Discovered an ore that gives every indication of bearing platinum!”
Eagerly Pearce turned a page.
“May 23: Yes, it’s platinum, all right! Followed the analysis and assay tests for platinum—did them a half-dozen times over—and have no doubts left in me now. The assay tests show the percentage of the element to be surprisingly high. Struck a lode—or what? Guess I’d better do some investigating on the sly to see how much land the ore covers. The boys are getting curious. Will just tell them I’m taking soil samples.
“Will have to be careful for another reason, too. Pete Horton, who owns several mines on the other side of the hills from here, offered to buy me out a couple of times. Once caught him and three of his gunhands snooping around near the borders of my claim. Wonder if he has found out about the platinum, too?”
Then—
“May 25: It looks like I’m going to cash in my chips soon. Poor little Sandra! Wish I could have seen her once more. Damn Horton—the smooth devil! He knew about the platinum, all right. And he found out I knew, too, when he caught me taking samples. His gunhands took me by surprise and jumped me. I’m at Horton’s headquarters, now—locked up.
“I know what’s going to happen. I heard Horton tell the rat he calls Merk about his plans. They’re going to tie me up, fly me in Horton’s rocket to a big swamp nearby, and then throw me out. The mud will finish me. But I might fool Horton yet. It’s dark now, and he might not notice my holster and belt are missing. Will leave this notebook in it, so it will be easier to find. If the Rangers ever come around, maybe . . . .”
That was all. The diary abruptly ended—and the reason was ominously evident to Pearce.
“It’s clear now,” he said slowly. “Horton had John Denham murdered.”
“And he’s going to do the same to us,” Billings added in despair. “He . . . he’ll have his men drop us in one of the swamps around here.”
Pearce nodded heavily, his face grim. He looked down at the notebook again, and his mind began connecting the threads which circumstances had placed in his hands.
John Denham had discovered platinum on his claim. And Pete Horton obviously had made the same discovery. When his offers to buy John Denham out had been met with refusal, his evil nature had suggested murder as the only remaining course of action.
It appeared that Horton hadn’t known of Sandra. Her appearance had evidently been a blow to his plans. At first he had tried to talk her into selling the mine, pretending to be concerned over her welfare. When she refused, he had bribed the Aztols with whiskey to attack her mine, hoping to frighten her into selling. But even this had failed, as had been indicated by his anger after his talk with the girl in her office.
Now, Pearce knew with chill certainty, Horton was bargaining with the natives for the complete extermination of Sandra and her men. Whiskey affected the Venusians like a maddening drug. Under its influence they became vicious and uncontrollable.
THE CONFERENCE taking place outside seemed to indicate something else as well. The Aztols were demanding a larger amount of whiskey than they had received from Horton in the past. And Horton was refusing to consent, as though fearing that the natives might get out of hand.
Abruptly the wrangling voices outside rose higher. A pneumatic coughed, its sound followed by a shrill scream. Then other weapons opened up. Men began shouting. And over the din rose the blood-chilling war-cry of the natives.
Pearce leaped to the window, to find himself gazing at a furious battle. But hardly a battle, it became clear within moments. More precisely it was
a massacre—a slaughtering of Horton and his men.
The fact that this had been planned and premediated shortly dawned upon Pearce. Before there had been less than a dozen of the natives. Now there were scores. Apparently the rest had been hidden among the surrounding rocks and undergrowth until a signal from their chief had called them forth to carnage.
A coldness tightening around his heart, Pearce watched the struggle.
Wielding knives and spears and shrieking wildly, the Aztols swarmed in a wave of scaly flesh over Horton’s men. The miners had a variety of modern weapons, and they triggered these in desperate haste. But there were too many of the natives, and they moved too rapidly. Despite the wide swathes cut in their ranks, they kept boiling forward. Everywhere the miners were going down.
The outcome of the fight was swiftly apparent. Those remaining of Horton’s men fled in panic toward the jungle. Groups of the Aztols went after them, screaming victoriously.
There would be no escape, Pearce realized with a shudder. The natives would be thorough in hunting down their prey. And when they returned to their village and celebrated their triumph, their temple would be decorated by a large number of freshly painted human skeletons.
Pearce whirled to Billings as a sudden thought struck him. “We’ve got to get out of here! If the Aztols find us, they’ll finish us off, too.”
The other swallowed, his round face pale. “They might even save us for torture. I read about that in Torrance’s book, but I never thought that I—” He made a sudden gesture. “Blast it, I wish I’d never read his blood-thirsty book!”
PEARCE turned back to the window, glancing about anxiously. His eyes settled upon the rocket runabout which the two toughs named Merk and Olsen had wheeled out of its shed. If he and Billings were somehow overlooked, Pearce thought, they could reach the rocket and fly to an Interplanetary Ranger outpost. They could warn the Rangers of what had happened and thus prevent the Aztols from further destruction where other miners in the vicinity were concerned—especially Sandra and her men.
The natives at the moment were running gleefully about the camp, looting and destroying. A group had found the whiskey cases, and were dragging them triumphantly toward their chief. There was something revolting about the way in which they tore the cases open and snatched at the bottles within, gulping at them in a kind of starved eagerness.
The Aztols had been wild enough before, but they became even worse as soon as the whiskey took effect upon them. They literally went insane. Screaming and gesticulating, they resumed their task of wholesale destruction. The scene was nightmarish in its abandoned savagery.
Part of the Aztols began running from building to building, setting them afire with torches. Others fell upon the mining machinery and began wrecking it, using large rocks or picks and sledgehammers which they found in various places about the camp. Several of the group turned as if by some common agreement toward the rocket runabout.
Pearce slumped in despair against the window through which he was watching. One important avenue of hope had been cut off.
Brandishing wooden clubs, rocks and mining tools, the natives swarmed over the craft, cutting, hacking and pounding. They fought one another for the chance to strike a blow. The metal hull was dented, punctured, ripped. The plastic cabin was shattered. The wings were pierced with jagged holes and partially torn off.
At last, wearied of their sport, the Aztols climbed off. But the rocket runabout had been ruined. It would never fly again.
In the next moment Pearce felt Billing’s hand tighten convulsively on his arm. The other pointed. Pearce looked in the indicated direction to see a group of Aztols hurring toward the hut. This was the torch-bearing party that had been setting the mine buildings afire, Pearce realized. Most of the structures were already in flames. The hut in which Pearce and Billings were imprisoned was one of the few which had not yet been attacked. But now the aroused natives were approaching.
Pearce whirled from the window, his eyes darting about the interior of the hut. He glimpsed a number of wooden crates at one end. They were empty, piled haphazardly one atop the other.
PEARCE turned a couple of the crates around to face the wall. He shoved Billings into the first and squeezed his own form into the second. He settled himself to wait the outcome of the strategy, his heart pounding. His and Billings’ moment had come. If they were discovered, their fate was certain to be a highly unpleasant one.
The Aztols were attacking the door of the hut with clubs and mining tools. Reluctantly the barrier gave. There was the sound of wood being torn away from the lock and hinges. Then there was the sound of scaly bare feet moving over the floor. A rustling and swishing as the litter of rubbish was pawed through. A rattling and crashing as several of the empty crates were examined and thrown contemptuously against the walls. One of the missiles struck Pearce’s hiding place at the further end of the hut. He flinched, beads of perspiration covering his forehead.
But the apparently innocuous nature of the hut seemed to discourage the natives from a more intensive search. They set fire to the rubbish on the floor with their torches, and amid rising flames and acrid smoke, went outside.
Pearce remained where he was until certain that the Aztols had gone. Finally, made anxious by the sound of spreading flames, he left his crate, and with a pale and shivering Billings following closely behind him, he worked his way around the fire in the middle of the hut and crept to one side of the now open doorway. Carefully he peered outside.
The Aztols were gathered together in the middle of the mining camp, arranging to depart. Presently they began filing out of sight, carrying the whiskey and other loot, together with the bodies of the slain miners, whose skeletons would become prized possessions.
Driven by the rising fire within the hut, Pearce and Billings hurried out into the deserted camp. It was lighted luridly by the burning buildings all around.
Billings wrung his hands in misery. “What . . . what are we going to do now?”
“We’ve got to get back to Sandra Denham’s camp,” Pearce said. “She and her men have to be warned. The natives aren’t through by any means. They have the whiskey. It’ll set them off again, and they’ll go after more miners. Sandra’s camp is the nearest, so I’d say she was in the greatest danger.”
Pearce glanced around to locate the route by which he and Billings had earlier entered Horton’s camp. Then he gestured. “Come on, let’s get started. There isn’t any time to lose.”
The two men started away at a run toward Sandra Denham’s mine. To Pearce the trip seemed to take years. Billings’ strength quickly gave out, and he was forced practically to half push and half pull the older man along. Exhaustion dragged at his own body, but he knew there could be no rest, no delay. Every second was precious.
How he reached the Denham mine he never clearly understood. He seemed to stumble through a fog, alternately dragging and supporting his companion. Somehow he kept moving, though each step seemed agony.
And then there were soothing hands at his temples, a cool and delicious wetness tricking down his throat. When outlines cleared and steadied before his eyes, he found himself gazing into Sandra Denham’s pale face. Her eyes became the center of his immediate world. He thought he had never seen eyes so deep and clear.
“Are you all right?” she asked in concern.
“I . . . I guess so,” he muttered. “Except for one thing. It just came to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fact that I’m in love with you.”
She stared at him a moment, then laughed softly. “You must have been hurt!”
PEARCE’S eyelids seemed weighted. A darkness hovered at the edges of his mind, eager to close in and overwhelm him. He fought it back. Vivid in his memory was the massacre at Horton’s camp. He couldn’t forget that the same fate menaced Sandra and her miners. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to sit up on the ground where he had been lying.
“You mustn’t,” Sandra murmured. “
You need rest.”
Pearce shook his head doggedly. “Can’t rest. The natives, Sandra. They’ll be coming any time now.”
“I know. Mr. Billings told us. There’s nothing we can do. You see, we haven’t enough ammunition to fight them off.” The girl spoke in a tone of gentle resignation.
“Not enough ammunition!” Pearce stared at her in dismay. Strength came from somewhere within him, a horror-impelled strength. He pushed himself erect.
Sandra had been kneeling beside him. She stood up.
Features gray and drawn, Billings was leaning against a cast marked “Nitric Acid”. Nearby were the three oldsters, bleak and unmoving.
Pearce rubbed at the stubble on his jaws, his mind questing frantically for some solution to this latest impasse. The Aztols would appear soon, he knew. They would come in full force. Inflamed by the whiskey, they would be little better than ravening beasts.
And there wouldn’t be enough ammunition to check them. It was doubtful if they could be checked even if there had been enough ammunition. Nothing short of bombs would effect them in their aroused mood.
Abruptly the old miner called Randy spoke.
“Listen, young fellow, you and your friend take Sandra, here, and head for the jungle. There’s other mining camps further along the hills. You could reach one easy enough. Me and the boys don’t count. We got one foot in the grave anyhow. We’ll hold the Aztols off while you get away.”
Pearce gripped Randy’s shoulder, shaking his head. “We’d never make it. The natives will start out for the other camps, too, and they’d overtake us on the way. They can travel faster.”
Billings said eagerly, “Pearce—look! Nitric acid! Couldn’t we throw it at the natives or something like that?”
“You could throw glycerine-plants at them for all the good it would do,” Pearce grunted. Then he stiffened. “Nitric acid . . . glycerine—” He smacked a fist into his palm, eyes glittering.
“Why, what is the matter?” Sandra asked in bewilderment.
The 47th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 3