Pearce whirled to her. “Get out all the guns and ammunition you have. Prepare for the attack. Hold the natives off as long as you can. But right now I want the tubes in which you pack the estrite crystals. I’ll need several other things, too.”
He swiftly outlined his requirements, and the girl nodded and hurried away. Then he turned to Billings.
“You’re going to help me with something else. Come on!”
FOLLOWED by the other, Pearce trotted toward the jungle fringe at the foot of the slope. A short time later he and Billings were back at the camp, their arms laden with broad leaves in which they placed a load of bright yellow ovoids plucked from glycerine-plants.
Pearce and Billings carried their burdens into one of the cabins, where Sandra had already placed a variety of equipment. Then, while the girl and her men left to await the coming of the Aztols, Pearce set to work. Billings served as assistant, following Pearce’s quick, low-voiced orders.
Pearce labored swiftly yet carefully, his entire mind concentrated on the task at hand. He lost all sense of passing time.
And then a series of shrill yells knifed into the tense silence. In the adjoining cabin Sandra and her men opened up with their rifles.
Bedlam broke loose. In a far corner of his mind, Pearce realized that the Aztols were attacking.
Urgency rose within him, a need for haste, but he forced himself to ignore the battle outside. What he was doing required the utmost caution. A slip would be fatal.
“If your hands shake now, you’ll blow us all to hell,” he warned Billings a moment later.
With great care, he began filling the estrite container tubes with a thick, colorless liquid. Hardly had he finished with this, when Sandra and her men burst into the room.
“Steve! Whatever you’re going to do, do it! We can’t stop the natives. They’re mad—insane!”
Shrieking eagerly, the Aztols were pouring across the camp toward the cabins. Within moments they were so close that every repulsive detail of their scaly bodies was easily discernible.
Flashing a quick grin of reassurance at the girl, Pearce gathered up a handful of the tubes which he had filled. He nodded at Billings.
“Get the rest and come along. And be careful. Don’t drop any.”
He strode to the door. The Aztols began to converge in his direction as they became aware of his appearance. A spear thudded into the wall near his head, but he waited until the natives were close. Then he lifted one of the tubes and hurled it into the midst of the onrushing figures.
There was a flash of light, a roar of sound. A wind seemed to touch Pearce. He smiled thinly and threw another of the tubes. Another flash, another roar, and the Aztols fell back in dismay. Pearce stepped forward, and the tubes began leaving his hands as swiftly as he could throw them. Billings joined him in sudden enthusiasm. The camp rocked and shuddered to almost continuous explosions. Amid brilliant flashes of light, the Aztols were falling. They fell several at a time. A few struggled erect, then fell back again as more light and sound overwhelmed them. The terrified survivors began running in frantic haste toward the jungle.
Moments later the camp had been cleared of moving figures. Through clouds of smoke and dust, a scene of havoc slowly took shape. The bodies of the Aztols were sprawled everywhere. Blood covered the ground in patches. Rocks and vegetation had been uprooted.
And there was silence, a bleak, desolate silence.
PEARCE turned heavily toward the cabin. Sandra was standing in the doorway, peering dazedly about her. Then her eyes settled on Pearce, and suddenly she was running toward him. She ran into his arms, and he held her tightly, feeling oddly quieted and at peace.
Randy and the two other oldsters appeared. They, too, stared about them, their leathery features bewildered.
“What in tarnation was that stuff you were throwing?” Randy asked Pearce. “It had a kick like tridentonite.”
“It was an ancestor of tridentonite,” Pearce explained, his arm around Sandra’s waist. “It was one of the earliest liquid explosives, and its name is nitro-glycerine, or dynamite. It’s produced by the action of nitric acid on glycerine. Billings, here, gets the credit for giving me the idea. He had showed me some glycerine-plants a while before, and then he called my attention to the nitric acid you use here. But maybe the real credit goes to the chemistry course I took back in college.”
Pearce glanced at the girl beside him, his face clouding. “I have something else to explain, Sandra. Something not so pleasant. But to wait would only make it more difficult.”
He released the girl and from one of his pockets produced the small notebook with the faded gold letters on the cover. He placed it gently in her hands.
Sandra gasped and her eyes widened. “Why, it’s my father’s notebook! Steve, where did you find it?”
Slowly, trying to soften the impact of his tale as much as possible, Pearce told her. She looked steadily down at the notebook in her fingers, tears visible on her cheeks.
Pearce placed an arm comfortingly about her shoulders. “I know it isn’t a nice story, Sandra, but I think it ended the way your father would have wanted it to end. You still have the mine—and the platinum lode. And Horton got what was coming to him when the Aztols attacked his camp.”
“You’re wrong about that, Pearce!” a voice snapped.
Pearce whirled in shocked, unbelieving recognition of that voice. Dimly he was aware that the others about him were turning, too. He stared at the two figures who had appeared around the corner of the cabin.
Horton and Merk!
Horton held a pneumatic and was smiling grimly, his dark hair mussed, his clothing torn. Merk gripped a rifle, his heavy features cold and hostile.
“Drop your guns!” Horton told Sandra’s men. “Careful. Make a wrong move and I start shooting.”
The oldsters had been taken completely by surprise. They’d had no opportunity to use the weapons they held. Now they let their weapons drop to the ground.
Pearce felt a sickness spread through him. Horton was in complete control of the situation. He was prepared to kill ruthlessly, at an instant’s notice. He knew his secret as John Denham’s murderer had been discovered. Those who knew would have to be silenced.
HORTON strode forward, his smile now mocking. “You thought the Aztols finished me off, eh, Pearce? Well, you were wrong about that, as you can see. Merk and I got away into the jungle as soon as we saw the fight was going against us. A couple of the natives followed us, but we were smart enough not to keep running like fools. We climbed a tree, and when the natives got close enough, we picked them off. Then we waited until things settled down and came here.”
“What do you want?” Sandra demanded coldly, her face set and her small chin high. “Did you come here to get rid of us the way you got rid of my father?”
“You guessed it,” Horton returned, his tone flat and determined. “I want the platinum on your claim—and I intend to get it. I gave you a chance to sell out, but you had to wait until this Pearce trouble-maker put his nose into things. Considering what you know now, I’d be foolish to take any risks. That means you and the others will have to be . . . well, put out of the way.”
Sandra shook her head slowly. “You must be out of your mind. You can’t hope to get away with wholesale murder. The authorities are certain to investigate what happened here and at your own camp.”
“There won’t be anything left for them to find,” Horton said impertubably. “Merk and I intend to take care of that. The authorities will assume that the Aztols attacked your camp and mine, and carried away the bodies of those killed, to keep the skeletons as is their custom. In fact, that’s the story I’m going to tell. Merk and I were the only ones lucky enough to escape. The Aztols will get the blame, and I’ll be in the clear.”
Horton gestured impatiently with his pneumatic. “Enough of this talk. I have a lot of work ahead of me, and I don’t intend to waste any more time.”
He glanced significantly at Merk.
The tough’s hard mouth tightened. He lifted his rifle. Horton readied his own weapon.
While Horton and Sandra had been talking, Pearce had become aware of the fact that he held a dynamite tube in his hand. In the shock of Horton’s appearance he had almost forgotten it. Nor had Horton or Merk become aware of the tiny object.
Now Pearce held the tube between his thumb and middle finger, in a catapult and trigger arrangement whereby it could be flipped through the air with swiftness and distance. The finger tensed, uncoiled sharply. The tube glittered briefly in the air and hit the ground beside Merk. A burst of light, a crash of sound. Merk staggered back, the rifle dropping from his hands as he clutched at his face. In the next instant he tripped and fell.
Pearce was already in motion, leaping toward Horton. The other was standing dazedly, a hand half raised to his eyes. Pearce hit him in the legs, and they fell rolling to the ground.
The physical impact seemed to clear Horton’s mind. His saturnine features twisted with an awareness of danger. In frantic haste he steadied himself and swung the muzzle of his pneumatic toward Pearce.
Pearce had been thrown to one side by the fall. On hands and knees, he turned to Horton just as the other raised his weapon. He heard Sandra scream a warning—and then he dove forward. The pneumatic coughed. Something swift and deadly brushed gently against the hair at Pearce’s temple. But in the next instant he had Horton’s wrist in a hard grip. He bent the weapon back and to one side.
Lips writhing in a snarl of fury, Horton lashed out with a knee. Pearce grunted with pain, and his clutch loosened. Horton surged forward with his arm, once more bringing the muzzle of the pneumatic to bear on Pearce. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Pearce never knew by what miracle of timing he accomplished what he did next. He knew only the anger that came with the pain, anger that brought new strength to his arm. And in the scant instant before Horton’s weapon coughed, he swung the other’s wrist around, so that the stream of tungsten-steel pellets caught Horton full in the throat. Dead by his own hand, Horton shuddered briefly and slumped to the ground.
WITH a maternal air, Sandra adjusted the blankets covering Pearce and then straightened. “Now you go to sleep,” she said. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day. Tomorrow you’ll need your strength to reach one of the mining camps along the hills.”
“I’ll be back, of course,” Pearce said. “As soon as I tell the authorities about what happened here and settle my affairs in New Chicago.” He studied the girl. “Were you serious in what you said about making me your business manager?”
She nodded. “After all, once I start mining the platinum I’ll need someone to help me take care of all the money. And I suppose I’ll need protection, too. You’ve proved good at that.”
Pearce looked distressed. “I’d been hoping for a more . . . well, a more permanent arrangement.”
The girl smiled. “I think that can be provided for later. For the present, here’s something on account.”
She bent swiftly, and her lips touched his. Then, with a smile and a more than usual amount of pinkness in her cheeks, she left the cabin.
In the adjoining bunk, Billings gazed after the girl and sighed. “You know, Pearce, she makes me wish I was young again.”
“I’m glad you aren’t,” Pearce returned. “I’d hate to have to rough you up any more than you have been already.”
“Considerate of you.” Billings locked his hands behind his head and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “You’ve reminded me of another matter. When I reach New Chicago I’m going to add a sportster to the freighters I ordered from you.”
Pearce sat up startledly. “What! I thought after what happened you wouldn’t want to have anything more to do with Nova Rockets.”
“Uhm . . . well, I just happened to remember something. You know that little red gadget on the control panel of the sportster?”
“Yeah. You mean the emergency pile dampener switch. It’s used to inert the pile in case the automatic relays don’t function.”
“Oh, is that what it was?” Billings said. He hesitated. “You see, when we were flying over the jungle, you were looking out of the window on your side, and I happened to notice the switch and started fiddling with it. I . . . I’m afraid I’m the one responsible for us being forced down. I’m sorry, Pearce.”
“Sorry!” Pearce said. “If it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met Sandra. Why, Billings, I could almost kiss you!”
“Don’t!” the other said hastily.
The Beacons Must Burn
CLAY BOWEN sensed trouble even at his first glimpse of the two men in spacesuits who stood at the outer door of the airlock, waiting to enter. Though dim in the viewing screen, their faces behind the glassite ports of their helmets were stern and hard. Foreboding brought a sudden chill to Bowen.
The young beacon tender of Station 12 on Io knew that he couldn’t take chances with these men. The ominous newscasts which had been, coming on the televideo during the last few weeks were still vivid in his mind. So instead of pulling the lever which would open the airlock, Clay Bowen switched on the communicator.
“What do you want?” he demanded tensely.
“It’s all right, kid,” the answer came. “We’re Interplanetary Rangers, both of us. Here’s our credentials.”
A metal-gloved hand loomed large in the view-screen. Through harrowed eyes, Clay Bowen inspected the platinum disks which lay in the palm. They were badges of authority possessed only by Interplanetary Rangers, the intrepid men who made up the far-flung police system of the Twenty-first Century. Clay Bowen’s doubts vanished. He pulled, the release lever.
Shortly, the two Rangers clumped into the airlock foyer, and the inner door hissed shut behind them. Without speaking, they removed their heavy metal suits, hanging them up on the prongs which projected from each side of the tiny room.
The taller of the two Rangers swung around to face Bowen.
“Name’s Nick Searles. This”—gesturing to the other—“is Andy Platt. You’re Clay Bowen, in charge of this station?”
Bowen nodded slowly, level grey eyes fixed upon the faces of the others. His lean body showed, compact strength, and there was a military stiffness about his back and shoulders. A suggestion of easy humor hung about his wide mouth and angular jaws.
NICK SEARLES pulled a blackened pipe from a pocket of his green and gold uniform and began to fill it. Andy Platt’s mouth already bulged from a generous cud of tobacco. Searles said:
“Bowen, we’re here on serious business. General Headquarters has good reason to believe that an attack upon this station is going to be made in the very near future.”
The Ranger’s words came as no great surprise to Clay Bowen. In a dim way, he had already expected them. The televideo hadn’t given full details of the vast crime wave which had lately engulfed, the void, but Bowen had been able to read between the lines.
Searles lit his pipe, blew out a plume of smoke! He went on:
“Several of the beacon stations scattered throughout the Asteroid Belt have been wrecked, their tenders murdered. The first attack was made upon the Deimos station. Later, spreading from the orbit of Mars outward, the attackers gradually snuffed out beacon stations in the Asteroid Belt as far as Vesta and Eros. So you can see why we think this station is due for an attack at almost any time now. Of course, we’re not sure which of the stations on the Jovian satellites is going to be attacked first, but Rangers have been assigned to all of them. It’s a good bet, however, that the primary satellites are due first.
“Platt and I are here, to see that nothing of the sort happens to you or your station. We’re to stay until further orders. You can put us up wherever it won’t interfere with your regular duties.”
Andy Platt, came forward, shifting his cud.
“What Nick told you ain’t covered everything,” he put in, speaking in a twangy drawl. “Beacon stations ain’t the only ones that’ve been attacked. Ships’ve gotten their
share of the trouble, too. Us Rangers’ve already found five or six hulks, looted of almost everything they carried, the whole crew-wiped out. Mind you, this is sayin’ the ships we’ve found. There’s a lot of others missin’ that we ain’t found yet.”
“But what is it all about?” Bowen asked wonderingly. “Who is behind this?”
“Pirates, of course,” Searles answered. “And from the looks of things, a pretty big gang of them. But who’s leading them, we don’t know. Might be Cass Rudler, Flash Barth, or any other of the big-shot buccaneers. One thing is certain, though—they’ve been planning and preparing for this series of raids for a mighty long time.” Searles gestured confidently.
“But you can bet that they won’t last long. Sooner of later they’re going to make a mistake—and that mistake’s going to be their last. But maybe they won’t have time to make a mistake either. The Fleet is getting ready for an expedition to Saturn’s moons. Few ships have ever gone that far, you know, and G.H.Q. has an idea that the pirates have their base located on one of the moons. If they have, the Fleet will smoke them out.”
“Me, I’m hungry,” Platt said. “When do we eat?”
“I’ll get something ready at once,” Bowen offered.
“Do that,” Searles said, turning to where his spacesuit hung. “While you’re at it, Platt and I art going back to the ship and unload our equipment. We’ve got an electro-bolt cannon and a couple of heat-beams to install.”
LATER, they were seated in the section of the station which Bowen humorously called “the lounge.” It was really the control room, but since his duties required him to spend most of his time there, he had tried to make it comfortable. He had furnished it with chairs, a table, and a bookcase. These occupied one half of the circular room. The other half was taken up by the beacon controls and the televideo set. Dividing the two halves was a spiraling steel ladder, the upper end of which led to the great beacon in the roof of the tower.
“Been in charge of this station long?” Searles inquired.
“Since just lately,” Bowen said. “About two months, standard System time.”
The 47th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 4