by Don Wilcox
And what would the earth people do in the morning? Would they dare show themselves? No, Glasgow had given them their answer on this point. There were supplies enough in the cave to meet their needs temporarily. They would stay inside and play safe—at least until they had a chance to see what the giant was up to. It was Glasgow’s reassuring theory that Gret-O-Gret would be dead within twenty-four hours, and their scare would be over.
“We’ll not count on the wingmen to do it this time,” Glasgow said to the guards at the entrance. “I’ve been making plans with George Hurley and Poppendorf. If any nervous persons take a notion to go sleepwalking out of this place in the night, turn them back. Do you understand this thoroughly?”
“Yes, boss—”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Mr. Glasgow.”
“All right. Watch it. One more thing. Have you seen or heard any Venus wingmen?”
“You mean here?”
“Here. At Banrab. This evening.”
“Not a thing, Mr. Glasgow.”
“All right.” Glasgow turned a scornful look at Anna. “It was just this girl’s imagination. She thought she saw some. If she did, they must have come with Gret-O-Gret. But he’d have no reason to bring them—not after what they tried on him.”
“Paul Keller might have some idea about that,” George suggested.
“Keller’s ideas couldn’t interest me. He’ll talk when he goes on trial.”
Paul, listening to these exchanges, called out from his jail. “And when will that be, Mr. Glasgow?”
The little dictator swaggered past heavily, refusing to meet Paul’s eye.
“When will that be, BOSS?” Paul yelled out sarcastically.
Glasgow stopped cold, and Paul thought he would have to come back and talk. But he snapped at one of his porters, “Make sure our prisoner has plenty of bread and water. He’s beginning to snarl like a wild animal.”
“Very well,” said the porter, “bread and water.”
“Until the trial.”
“Until the trial,” the porter echoed. “And another thing,” said Glasgow. “Bring Katherine Keller in to me. I want to talk with her.”
CHAPTER XXX
“Wingmen!” Paul kept saying, more to himself than to Katherine. He was doing his best not to appear too disturbed by her scheduled visit with Glasgow. “Do you suppose that Gret had managed to clinch their friendship?” he asked her.
“That big green-winged leader was nobody’s fool,” Katherine said. “If he and Gret have struck a bargain it might lead to curious things.”
“Such as?”
“A permanent wingman colony on the earth, with Gret-O-Gret’s blessing.”
“Do you think Gret will be satisfied to go on living here, apart from his own people?”
“If he just had us to entertain him—”
The porters were coming for Katherine. She gave Paul a little wink. “How would you like some shadow movies? I’ll keep in sight.”
Paul smiled. He knew she was referring to the sheet that formed the wall of Glasgow’s “apartment.” He could trust her to take care of herself.
She made a gesture of spitting on one of the porters who barked orders at her. Paul grinned at their deadly manner of holding a pistol over him while they unlocked and relocked the panel of bars that held him captive.
For a few minutes he was alone. It was quite late. Most of the cavern population had evidently bedded down for what would probably be a sleepless night. The guards at the entrance weren’t going to have much business. The newly arrived people wouldn’t do any moonlight strolling tonight. They had heard enough descriptions of Gret-O-Gret—his mile of height and brawn in proportion—to know that the tiny corners of a cave, entirely out of his range, were much to be desired.
Footsteps . . .
Such light footsteps for such a heavy woman. It was Mamma Mountain. Red robe and purple slippers and another plate of food.
“I thought you might want another sandwich, Mr. Keller.”
Paul was amused at her slight timidity. Maybe it was the quiet and the lateness, maybe her hidden fears.
“Any metal in the sandwich? I could use a key to unlock this cage. Or a good file.”
“Sorry, Mr. Keller. I just came down because I didn’t feel like sleeping. And I didn’t know whether I should lie there awake, listening to Mr. Glasgow talk to your wife.”
“Was it interesting?”
“He’s telling her that they might borrow George Hurley’s space flivver and take a long ride together somewhere after he gets to be the dictator—no, he said directo—of the earth.”
“Didn’t he offer to throw in a palace or a yacht, the cad?”
“He didn’t have a chance. She started making jokes, and he began to get sore. Then she got quiet and listened and talked politely. But he’s not getting anywhere, I can tell you that.”
“Look,” said Paul, “I can see her shadow from here and I know she’s all right. But you keep right on listening—”
“What’s that, Mr. Keller?”
A sound from outside the cave entrance had attracted their attention. The flutter of wings. Somewhere out there in the darkness a few wingmen were spying. The two sleepy guards roused up and shot beams of light across the cliff road. Beyond the road there was nothing but air and sky—lots of it—plenty of room for clever wingmen to fly by without being discovered.
“You’d better get back to Papa Mouse,” said Paul.
“I’d better—uh-huh. I’m too scared to twitch. Besides, Papa Mouse and George Hurley are bunking together, and they’re both sleeping like logs. Anna Pantella came in with me, and she kept crowding me out of bed.”
“She crowded you? . . . S-s-sh! There they are again.”
The guards had their guns ready, but they weren’t too sure what the visit was all about. They moved down the road a few steps and paused to listen. There was a curious lot of chatter and wing fluttering only a few yards away. A female voice—
As silently as a leaf falling, the big green-feathered wingman sailed into the cavern entrance. The guards didn’t see him. The noise had drawn them away. It was all a ruse, and it was working. But if that little purple-winged female was doing all the chattering and fluttering, she was taking a long chance with her life.
“What’s going on out there?” one of the guards shouted into the darkness.
At the same time, the green wingman came tiptoeing along the cave floor, looking in all directions until he spied Mamma Mountain. He put his hands over his lips. Mamma was sufficiently hypnotized to do the same thing. Paul heard her swallow hard, but thank goodness she found no voice to scream.
“He’s a friend,” Paul whispered. “Don’t make any noise. He’s come to see me.”
If Mamma Mountain succeeded in controlling herself beyond Paul’s expectations, the guards carried on with almost enough noise-making to spoil the green wingman’s game. But the wingman worked fast and took his own chances.
“Keller.”
“Yes.”
“The giant wants you. He’s going to Mercury to catch someone. Will you go with him? He says you are in bad trouble. He says the trouble will disappear if he can catch someone at Mercury. Get out of your cage and come. He is ready to go.” Mamma Mountain, weaving and about to faint, now found her voice. Not a scream, but a weird, frightened “Woo-oo-oo-ah!”
The walls of Glasgow’s apartment rustled. Savage footsteps sounded.
“You’re caught, Green!” Paul gasped. “Get out before they shoot you.”
The ceiling was about twenty-five feet high at one point nearby, and the green wingman had evidently already observed this. One leap, one flutter, and he was up, clinging to the rugged stone.
A moment later Glasgow bounced into view. Two porters followed him, and after them came Katherine. What happened, everyone wanted to know. No one saw the wingman. Glasgow stopped at the cage and demanded to know what Mamma Mountain was doing there.
“Was it y
ou that cried out? Speak up, what happened?”
“She just brought me a sandwich,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Mamma Mountain whimpered, “When he started to eat the sandwich, I all at once got sick—so I went woo-ah!”
“He ate it, so you got sick. That doesn’t make sense, woman. Get yourself to bed.”
Glasgow had come too close to the panel of bars. Paul reached out and closed a hand over his wrist.
“You don’t make sense, you lying wretch! Let me out of here before I pull you through these bars!”
The cry that Mamma Mountain had given forth was nothing compared to the one she was giving now—and it was a poor second to Garritt Glasgow’s. Katherine’s voice, however, was the one that Paul heard.
“Stop it, Paul. They’ll shoot you.”
Paul had closed an iron grip on Glasgow’s wrist and he couldn’t seem to let go.
“You miserable, lying, thieving devil. When I think of how you murdered in cold blood—I should have brained you on the spot, but I was too soft-hearted. You screeched for mercy, didn’t you, you skulking dog? So I let you go. I gave you a chance, and how you promised—”
“Paul!” Katherine was screaming. “Stop it, Paul.”
The guards had come, guns ready, and Garritt Glasgow, writhing in pain, tried to give them the order to shoot.
It may have been Mamma Mountain’s weird cry that froze the action when the first pistol was steadying and aiming at Paul’s heart. Mamma Mountain cried and pointed. Everyone looked to the entrance to the cave.
Instead of the night’s blackness, they saw an immense purple and orange eye—so large that it seemed to fill all outdoors.
The orange glow cast a baleful light into the cave entrance. Persons hurrying to the scene from their cavern apartments were stopped cold. Several persons screamed.
The eye was much larger than the entrance of the cave. It moved from side to side, for its owner was trying to get a clear view of the inside of this place.
Even Mamma Mountain’s voice could not do justice to the occasion. Paul heard George Hurley shout, “Hey, that’s the giant. He’s reaching in.”
The fingers-of-fingers appeared at the cliff’s edge, extending themselves from the larger fingers of the immense hand. The glowing eye had moved backward to make room for the hand to reach in.
Paul wondered whether Glasgow was barking any orders in that wild moment. If he was commanding a retreat, he was getting one-hundred percent obedience. If he had ordered anyone to shoot, his suggestion was generally ignored. Any pistol fire was quite incidental to the real business of getting out of the way.
The only one who didn’t run back was the green-feathered wingman. He fluttered down in all his glory, squawking a few wingman words in his excitement. He ran to the giant’s fingers, brushed his wings over them to identify himself, and guided them in.
With the wingman’s help, the giant’s hand reached the bars of Paul’s cave. His fingers-of-fingers crushed the panel, and he reached in and drew Paul into his hand.
“Wait!” Katherine cried, running forward. “Wait, Gret-O-Gret! What are you going to do?”
Paul heard her shrill outcry, amid the clamor, but he didn’t try to do anything about it. Things were happening too fast.
The green wingman flew past him as he was lifted out into the night’s darkness. A winged female joined her hero, and they followed Gret-O-Gret back to the Mogo space boat.
A moment later the lights of the boat came on. Again, that soft, creamy glow of light over the glass-like shelves. Paul climbed down off the giant’s fingers. The great hands reached to the controls and the thirteen-mile boat was moving.
CHAPTER XXXI
From their mountainside cave the frightened inhabitants saw the thirteen-mile ship take off. Its lighted windows slid along through the blackness, accelerating as the great boat lifted to clear the black barrier of mountains. Swiftly it skimmed along under a wisp of cloud, like a city flying through the night. A thin trail of red light followed in its wake, brighter for a moment as it charged up into the stratosphere. Already it was racing toward the stars, and its vast bulk had become only a speck of light shooting out into the wide universe of space.
Katherine tried not to let anyone see that she was crying. She was a strong person, and her strength didn’t often let her down. No one paid much attention to her now. Everyone was too badly shaken over what happened. Mamma Mountain, far from being her calm and competent self, was indulging in a bit of hysterics.
“Woo-oo-ah!” she would cry out. “I hear the giant. I see his eye. He’s reaching!
She might have carried on that way until morning if George and Anna hadn’t taken care of her. Papa Mouse was exhausted from all the excitement and too sleepy to be bothered. But Anna Pantella’s reassurances were full of comfort.
“The giant has gone, Mamma. You saw him fly away. By this time he’s way on the other side of the moon . . . He didn’t want us, Mamma. He only wanted his special friend, Paul Keller.”
“Mr. Keller was a good man,” Mamma Mountain would sigh, quieting down. “He liked my sandwiches. What will the giant do with him?”
“Nothing. They’re friends, don’t you see. They’re both great space explorers. They ride the sky and like it. Gee, I wish they’d taken me along.” Anna turned to George. “Don’t you wish you could have gone?”
“I may go, anyway,” said George.
“Oh, let’s do!”
“Where do you get that ‘let’s do’ stuff?”
“I mean—why don’t you? Gee, if I had a space flivver like yours, I’d go to Mercury just to see what happens. If my brother from Venus was here—”
“He’ll be here soon,” said George. “You can get him to take you.”
Anna gave him a queer look. “No, I don’t think so. Not right away.”
“He’ll be here,” George repeated. “If this planet blasting keeps up, everybody and his space ship will be here?”
“Is that bad, Big Boy?”
“As far as your brother is concerned, it’s good. I never did get to meet the guy.”
Mamma Mountain began to forget her state of nerves. She asked Anna questions about her brother—how old he was and how he had happened to take up space navigation and what kind of grades he had got in school. Was he married? How many children did he have, and were they good looking like Anna?
“They’re adorable children.”
“How old?”
“Three and six.”
George spoke up. “When we were on Venus you told me they were two and four.”
“Uh?” said Anna. “Oh, well, they’ve had birthdays since then.”
“Oh,” said George sleepily. “Time does move along, doesn’t it. How soon will they be four and eight?”
“Will they come to the earth?” Mamma Mountain asked. “Do you think they’ll fit in with the rugged life here?”
Papa Mouse groaned between snores and murmured, “Rugged. You can say that twice. Go to sleep, will you?”
It was daylight before George slept. A bright dream had taken possession of him. It concerned a gleaming copper-striped space flivver chasing through the heavens in the direction of Mercury. If he went, whom would he take with him? Space traveling was full of lonely hours and it wasn’t good to be alone too much. But an uncongenial companion on a long jaunt was worse than loneliness. You thought twice before you picked an assistant—or a crew—or a partner—or a wife.
Wife? Now what had made George think of that? He roused up, dressed and shaved and looked around for some breakfast.
The Banrab camp was in quite good spirits this morning. The newcomers from Venus were making big plans. There were engineers among them who were already working on sketches of a spaceport village in the Banrab setting. Garritt Glasgow was nursing a bad arm that had been bruised against the bars of Paul’s jail. A young doctor attended him, after which Poppendorf stood guard for him and announced to all comers that Mr. Glasgow was not feeling we
ll and was not to be disturbed.
Meanwhile, Mr. Waterfield ascended to a sort of informal leadership. The loss of Judge Lagnese was felt keenly by many of the group, and it was natural for many persons to turn to the late judge’s friend, Waterfield. As a man of wealth, he was on his guard against being stampeded by any chance adventurers’ requests for funds. But as everyone was soon to know, it was largely Waterfield’s money that bought goods and supplies from Venus for the establishment of the proposed Banrab spaceport.
George waited for a chance to talk with Mr. Waterfield in private.
“You’re busy so I’ll not take but a minute.”
“Not too busy to take a walk with you, my boy. I’ve been sticking much too close to this cave. Frankly, this primitive life doesn’t agree with me.”
They jogged down the path, and the vigorous man of fifty-five discarded his tie and opened his collar, reveling in the fresh air and exercise.
“A cave can be rather confining, you know. This is all very exciting, getting our plans together for a new earth. But I’ve been rather too close to it.”
George led the way to his flivver. He knew that Mr. Waterfield needed a change of scenery. They got in and skimmed away over the top of a bank of rain clouds, and up through the thin air.
They looked down on the jagged teeth of new mountains that poked up through the sunny side of the clouds.
“Riding the skies is good,” said Mr. Waterfield. “It gave a man a sense of strength and somehow it fills his soul. But a man can’t live on these high moments alone. It takes a lot of concentrating over blueprints and sweating in the shops to give us blessings like these. It isn’t all glamour.”
George liked to share Waterfield’s thoughts—thoughts that gave meaning to many of his own unexpressed feelings. It was a pleasure to associate with a man who, for all his wealth, had not lost his appreciation for the sweat of planning and digging and building. Waterfield’s millions of dollars had not caused him to turn his back on the solid values and escape to a life of ease and pleasure.