“So you had to come and bring me the news. I suppose you expect me to quit now and twiddle my thumbs.”
“That offer of a berth on my ship—which will work—still stands. Of course, if I have to get out an injunction to stop you, it will make matters a little more difficult, but the result will be the same.”
Erin smiled grimly. “That was the poorest move you’ve made, Greg,” he said. “Your lawmakers bungled. I read the law, and it forbids the use of atomic power in the ‘vacuum of space.’ And good scientists will tell you that a vacuum is absolute nothing in space—but between the planets, at least, there are a few molecules of matter to the cubic inch. Your law and injunction won’t work.”
“You’ve seen a lawyer, I suppose?”
“I have, and he assures me there’s nothing to stop me. Furthermore, until I reach space, the law doesn’t apply, and when I’m in space, no Earth-made laws can govern me.”
Stewart shrugged. “So you’ve put one over on me again. You always were persistent, Erin. The only man I haven’t been able to beat—yet. Maybe I’ll have to wait until your crazy ship fails, but I hope not.”
“I’ll walk down to the dock with you,” Erin offered. “Drop in any time you want to, provided you come alone.” He was feeling almost friendly now that success was in sight. Stewart fell in beside him, his eyes turned toward the group of laborers Jack was directing.
“I suppose—” he began, and stopped.
“He goes along, according to his own wishes.”
Stewart grunted. “You realize, Erin, that one false attempt might set the possibility of the public’s accepting rocket flight back fifty years. And the men in the ship would be—well, wouldn’t be.” He hesitated. “How much would you take to stop it?”
“You know better than that.” But Erin realized that the question was more an automatic reaction than anything else. When Stewart asked that, he could see no other solution, and money had been his chief weapon since he made his first fortune.
As the man left in the little boat that had brought him, Erin wondered, though. Was Stewart licked, for once and for all? Or was it only the combination of seeing his son turned against him, and finding his carefully laid scheme hadn’t made a decent fizzle? He shrugged and dismissed it. There seemed little more chance for trouble, but if it came, it would be the unexpected, and worry would do no good.
It was the unexpected, but they were not entirely unwarned. The first pale light of the false dawn showed when a commotion at the door awakened them. Doug got up grumpily and went groping toward the key. “Some darned Chinese in a fight, I suppose,” he began.
Then he let out a sound that scarcely fitted a human throat and jerked back in. The others could see only two small, rounded arms that came up around his neck, and a head of hair that might have been brown in a clearer light. The voice was almost hysterical. “Doug! Oh, I was afraid I wouldn’t get here in time.”
“Helen!” Doug’s words were frigid, but he trembled under the robe. “What are—don’t start anything…I saw the letter.” They could see her more clearly now, and Jimmy whistled. No wonder Doug had taken it so hard. She was almost crying, and her arms refused to let him go. “I knew you’d seen the first page—part of it. But yon didn’t read it all.”
“Well?” Only the faintest ghost of a doubt tinged his inflection.
“I wasn’t just acting the Saturday before; I meant it. That’s why I was writing the letter—to tell Mr. Stewart I was through with him.” She groped into her purse and came out with a wrinkled sheet. “Here, you can see for yourself. And then you were gone and I found this in the wastebasket where you threw it, so I didn’t quit. I thought you’d never speak to me. Believe me, Doug!”
His wizened little face wasn’t funny now, though two red spots showed up ridiculously on his white skin. His long, tapering fingers groped toward her, touched, and then drew back. She caught them quickly. “Well—” he said. Then: “What are you doing here, anyhow, Helen…Helenya?”
She jerked guiltily. “Stewart. His lieutenant—Russell—wanted the combination to your alarm system again—forgot it.”
“You gave it?”
“I had to. Then I came here to warn you. There are a bunch of them, every rat on his force, and they’re coming here. I was afraid you’d be—”
There was something almost wonderful about Doug then. All the silly cockiness and self-consciousness were gone. “All right,” he said quietly. “Go back to the cook shack and stay there; you’ll know where to find it. No, do as I say. We’ll talk it over later, Helen. I don’t want you around when it happens. Go on. Erin, Tom, you’ll know what to do. I’ll wake the Chinese and get them in order.” And he was gone at a run.
VII
They didn’t stop to dress fully, but went out into the chill air as they were. Doug had the Chinese lined up and was handing out the few spare weapons grimly, explaining while he worked. A tall North Country yellow man asked a few questions in a careful Harvard accent, then turned back and began barking orders in staccato Mandarin. Whether they would be any good in a fight was a question, but the self-appointed leader seemed to know his business. They were no cowards, at least.
Tom Shaw passed Jimmy a dried plug of tobacco. “Better take it,” he advised. “When you’re fighting the first time, it takes something strong in your mouth to keep your stomach down, son. And shoot for their bellies—it’s easier and just as sure.”
There was no time to throw up embankments at the wharf, so they drew back to the higher ground, away from the buildings, which would have sheltered them, but covered any flanking movement by the gunmen. Jack stared incredulously at the gun in his hand, and wiped the sweat from his hands. “Better lend me some of that tobacco,” he said wryly. “My stomach’s already begun fighting. You using that heavy thing?”
“Sure.” The gun was a sixty-pound machine rifle, equipped with homemade grips and shoulder and chest pads, set for single fire. It looked capable of crushing Shaw’s lanky figure at the first recoil, but he carried it confidently. “It’s been done before; grew up with a gun in my hand in the Green Mountains.”
Erin rubbed a spot over his heart surreptitiously and waited. Stewart would be defeated only when he died, it seemed, and maybe not then.
Then they made out the figures in the tricky light of the dawn, long shadows that slunk silently over the dock and advanced up the hill toward the bunkhouse. Some movement must have betrayed the watchers, for one of the advancing figures let out a yell and pointed. “Come on, mugs,” a hoarse voice yelled. “Here’s our meat, begging to be caught. A bonus to the first man that gets one.”
Whing! Shaw twitched and swore. “Only a crease,” he whispered, “and an accident. They can’t shoot.” He raised the heavy gun, coming upright, and aimed casually. It spoke sharply, once, twice, then in a slow tattoo. The light made the shooting almost impossible, but two of the men yelled, and one dropped.
“Make it before sunup,” he warned, as the thugs drew back nervously. “The light’ll hit our eyes then and give them the advantage.” Then the men below evidently decided it was only one man they had to fear and came boiling up, yelling to encourage themselves; experience had never taught them to expect resistance. Shaw dropped back onto his stomach, beside the others, shooting with even precision, while Erin and Jimmy followed suit. The rest were equipped only with automatics, which did little good.
“Huh!” Jack rubbed a shoulder where blood trickled out, his eyes still on the advance.
Erin felt the gun in his hand buck backward and realized suddenly that he was firing on the rushing men.
Jimmy’s voice was surprised. “I hit a man—I think he’s dead.” He shivered and stuck his face back to the sights, trying to repeat it.
Shaw spat out a brown stream. “Three,” he said quietly. “Out of practice, I guess.”
The few Chinese with handarms
attempted a cross fire as the men came abreast, but their marksmanship was hopeless. Then all were swept together, waves breaking against each other, and individual details were lost. Guns were no good at close range, and Erin dropped the rifle, grabbing quickly for the hatchet in his belt as a heavy-set man singled him out.
He saw the gun butt coming at him in the man’s hand, ducked instinctively, and felt it hit somewhere. But the movement with the hatchet seemed to complete itself, and he saw the man drop. Something tingled up his spine, and the weapon came down again, viciously. Brains spattered. “Shouldn’t hit a man who’s down,” a voice seemed to say, but the heat of fighting was on him, and he felt no regret at the broken rule.
A sharp stab struck at his back, and he swung to see a knife flashing for a second stroke. Pivoting on his heel, he dived, striking low, and heard the knife swish by over his head. Then he grabbed, caught, and twisted, and the mobsman dropped the metal blade from a broken arm. Most of the fighting had turned away down the hill, and he moved toward the others.
Jimmy spat out a stream of tobacco in the face of an opponent, just as another swung a knife from his side. Erin jumped forward, but Tom Shaw was before him, and the knife fell limply as Shaw fired an automatic from his hip. “Five,” Erin heard his dispassionate voice. Beside Shaw, Hank Vlček was reducing heads with a short iron bar.
Erin moved into the fight again, swinging the hatchet toward a blood-covered face, not waiting to see its effects. Two of the Chinese lay quietly, and one was dragging himself away, but none of his other men seemed fatally injured. He scooped up a fallen knife, jumped for one man, and twisted suddenly to sink it in the side of Jack’s opponent, then jerked toward the two who were driving Doug backward.
Doug stumbled momentarily, and something slashed down. Morse saw the little body sag limply, and threw the hatchet. Metal streaked through the air to bury itself in the throat of one of the men, and Erin’s eyes flashed sideways. Kung stood there, another kitchen knife poised for the throwing. The remaining one of Doug’s assailants saw it, too, and the knife and gun seemed to work as one. Kung gasped and twisted over on his bad leg; the knife missed, but Erin’s hatchet found its mark. Only a split second had elapsed, but time had telescoped out until a hundred things could be seen in one brief flash.
And then, without warning, it seemed, the battle was over and the gunmen drew back, running for the dock. Shaw grabbed for his gun and yelled, “Stop!” A whining bullet carried his message more strongly, and they halted. He spat the last of his tobacco out. “Pick up your dead and wounded, and get out! Tell Stewart he can have the bodies with our compliments!”
Russell lay a few yards off, and their leader had been the first to fall under Erin’s hatchet. Lacking direction, they milled back, less than a third of the original number, and began dragging the bodies toward the dock. Shaw followed them grimly, the ugly barrel of the machine gun lending authority to his words, and Erin turned toward Doug.
The physicist was sitting up. “Shoulder,” he said thickly. “Only stunned when I hit the ground. Better see about Kung over there.” Then a rushing figure of a girl swooped down, taking possession of him and biting out choking cries at his wound. Erin left him in Helen’s hands and turned to the cook.
It was too late. Kung had joined his ancestors, and the big Hill Country Chinese stood over him. “A regrettable circumstance, Mr. Morse,” he enunciated. “Hsi Kung tendered you his compliments and requested that I carry on for him. I can assure you that our work will continue as before. In view of the fact that you are somewhat depleted as to funds, Hsi Kung has requested that his funeral be a simple one.”
Erin looked at Kung’s body in dull wonder; since he could remember, the man had apparently lived only that he might have a funeral whose display would impress the whole of his native village in China. “I guess we can ship him back,” he said slowly. “How many others?”
“Two, sir. Three with injuries, but not fatal, I am sure. I must congratulate your men on the efficiency with which the battle was conducted. Most extraordinary.”
“Thanks.” Erin’s throat felt dry, and his knees threatened to buckle under him, while his heart did irregular flip-flops. To him it seemed that it was more than extraordinary none of his friends were dead; all were battered up, but they had gotten off with miraculous ease. “Can some of your men cook?”
“I should feel honored, sir, if you would appoint your servant, Robert Wah, to Hsi Kung’s former position.”
“Good. Serve coffee to all, and the best you can find for any that want to eat—your men as well.” Then, to Shaw who had come up: “Finished?”
Shaw nodded. “All gone, injured and wounded with them. Wonder if Stewart’s fool enough to drag us into court over it? I didn’t expect this of him.”
“Neither did I, but it will be strictly private, I’m—sure.” Erin’s knees weakened finally, and Shaw eased him to a seat. He managed a smile at the foreman’s worried face. “It’s nothing—just getting old.” He’d have to see a doctor about his heart soon. But there was still work to be done. With surprise, he noticed blood trickling down one arm. Stewart had done that; it was always Stewart.
VIII
The clerks in Gregory Stewart’s outer office sat stiffly at their work, and the machines beat out a regular tattoo, without any of the usual interruptions for talk. Stewart’s private secretary alone sat idle, biting her nails. In her thirteen years of work, she thought she had learned all the man’s moods, but this was a new one.
He hadn’t said anything, and there had been no blustering, but the tension in the office all came from the room in which he sat, sucking at his pipe and staring at a picture. That picture, signed “Mara,” had always puzzled her. It had been there while his wife was still living, but it was not hers.
The buzzer on the PBX board broke in, and the girl operator forgot her other calls to plug in instantly. “Yes, sir,” she said hastily. “Erin Morse, on Kroll Island. I have the number. Right away, sir.”
She could have saved her unusual efforts; at the moment, Stewart was not even conscious of her existence. He stared at the blank visi-screen, his lips moving, but no sound came out. There was a set speech by his side, written carefully in the last hour, but now that he had made his decision, he crumpled it and tossed it in the waste-basket.
The screen snapped into life, and the face of his son was on it, a face that froze instantly. At least they were open for calls today, which was unusual; ordinarily, no one answered the buzzer. Stewart’s eyes centered on the swelling under the shirt, where the boy’s wound was bandaged. “Jack,” he said quickly. “You all right?”
The boy’s voice was not the one he knew. “Your business, sir?”
Humbleness came hard to Stewart, who had fought his way up from the raw beginnings only because he lacked it. Now it was the only means to his end. “I’d like to speak to Erin, please.”
“Mr. Morse is busy.” The boy reached for the switch, but the others quick motion stayed his hand.
“This is important. I’m not fighting this morning.”
Jack shrugged, wincing at the dart of pain, and turned away. Stewart watched him fade from the screen’s focus and waited patiently until Erin’s face came into view. It was a tired face, and the erect shoulders were less erect this time.
Morse stared into the viewer without a change of expression. “Well, Stewart?”
“The fight’s over, Erin.” It was the hardest sentence Stewart had ever spoken, but he was glad to get it over. “I hadn’t meant things to work out the way they did, last night. That was Russell’s idea, the dirty rat, and I’m not sorry he found his proper reward. When I do any killing, I’ll attend to it myself.”
Erin still stared at him with a set face, and he went on, digging out every word by sheer willpower. “I’d meant them to blow up your ship, I admit. Maybe that would have been worse, I don’t know. But Russell
must have had a killing streak in him somewhere, and took things into his own hands. Who was killed?”
“A Chinese cook and two others of the same race. Your men might have done more.”
“Maybe. Men might have. Yellow river rats never could put up a decent fight against opposition of the caliber you’ve got!” Stewart checked off a point on a small list and asked, “Any relatives of the dead?”
“The cook had an uncle in China—he must have slipped over the border, since he’s not American-born. I’m shipping him back with the best funeral I can afford. The others came from Chinatown.”
“I’ll have the cook picked up today and see that he gets a funeral with a thousand paid mourners. The same to the others, and ten thousand cash to the relatives of each. No, I’d rather; I’m asking it as a favor, Erin.”
Erin smiled thinly. “If you wish. Your rules may be queer, from my standards, but it seems you do have a code of your own. I’m glad of that, even if it’s a bit rough.”
Stewart twitched his mouth jerkily; that hurt, somehow. Erin had a habit of making him seem inferior. Perhaps his code was not the sporting one, but it did include two general principles: mistakes aren’t rectified by alibis, and a man who has proved himself your equal deserves respect.
“I don’t fight a better man, anyway, Erin,” he admitted slowly. “You took all I handed out and came up fighting. So you’ll have no trouble getting supplies from now on, and we’ll complete this race on equal footing. How did Jack take it?”
“Like a man, Greg.” In all the years of their enmity, neither had quite dropped the use of first names, and Erin’s resentment was melting. “He’s a fine boy. You sired well.”
“Thank God for that, at least. Erin, you hold a patent on an air-conditioning machine, and I need it. The government’s building submarines, and I can get a nice bunch of contracts if I can supply that and assure them of good air for as long as they want to stay under.” Stewart’s voice had gone businesslike. “Would ten percent royalties and a hundred thousand down buy all but space rights? It’s not charity, if that worries you.”
The 13th Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 12