Half-blinded by their glare, Pete whirled around. Someone had set the master-switch in the Administration Building. Every light in the tower glared brilliantly, and after his eyes stopped tearing, Pete looked through the window and saw that the field, too, glowed with thousands of tiny points of light. Half a dozen arc lights threw their beams across the blackness, crossing one another, almost like great silver swords.
Pete hurled himself downstairs,, reached the door, opened it. Far away across the field, a score of figures were running toward him, yelling.
He ran around to the other side of the tower, set out in long, loping strides across the field. He ignored the beams that flashed and stabbed through the darkness, catching him in their glare every few seconds. If he tried to avoid them, he’d get no place at all.
His one chance was to reach the other side of the field and hide out on the New Mexico desert until he had a chance to slip away and back home. The desert would be hot and dry and he might not last a full day out there under the broiling sun, but still, he had to try it. Meanwhile, first things came first, and he was dimly aware of figures closing in on all sides of him.
If they found him — and it now seemed a certainty that they would — they would also discover that he had tampered with the Vulcan’s orbit, They would change it back to its original course, and the night’s wild adventure would have been for nothing. In that case, he had no choice but to delay the Vulcan itself. If he somehow could reach the ship, enter it, a few seconds would suffice to see that it did not take off on schedule. It would have to wait until the following morning at sunrise, and an entirely new orbit would be necessary. A twenty-four-hour delay, then, would do it!
The guards were everywhere, and so were the blinding, stabbing lights. He ran almost haphazardly, first in one direction, then in another, trying to elude his pursuers. He broke clear briefly, and, his breath coming in tortured gasps, he sprinted toward the Vulcan, a tall, slender shape in the night.
He reached it, saw the ground-crew scurrying around, doing last minute things. Lights played on the hull of the ship, men climbed the scaffolding rigged around it . . .
“Hey, young feller What’re you doing here?”
Splat! Pete couldn’t help it. He balled his fist and bit the man, saw him stumble back and fall away into the darkness. He did not wait to see if the man were unconscious. Instead, he began to climb the scaffolding, and that at least would not attract attention. He’d look like a member of the ground-crew.
The Vulcan rested vertically in its blasting pit, and Pete climbed fifty feet off the ground before he reached the ship’s port. He tugged at the handle, sighed his relief when the massive metal door swung in easily. Apparently, workers were within the ship. Pete swung in toward the airlock perilously, his feet dangling out over emptiness. A yard or more separated the skeleton structure of girders from the hull itself, but after a while he got the idea. He swung his body like a pendulum, gathering momentum. Finally, he thrust himself forward, letting go of the scaffold.
For a moment, he hung suspended, saw the ground reeling beneath him. Then he had tumbled into the airlock, and trembling, he got to his feet, ran through the little corridor and pushed open the inner door.
He was within the Vulcan.
He walked through the companionway, beard the sounds of work on all sides of him. Ahead, he could see the portal of the astrogation room, ajar. He plunged through, found a sturdy metal chair and hefted it experimentally overhead. It would do . . .
He brought the chair down with savage force against the radar instruments, heard the tinkle of glass breaking, the protesting whine of metal against metal. At length he was satisfied. He turned and started back through the companionway. He got as far as the airlock’s inner door.
Three uniformed men, blasters in their hands, waited there. Pete surrendered quietly.
Chapter 10 — Jailbreak!
The man’s name was Adams, and he was very thorough. The guards had returned with Pete to the tower, and there they were met by Captain Saunders and Adams, an Inspector from the Patrol, went to work.
“Why did you wreck the radar, Hodges?”
“I had to.”
“That’s no answer. Why did you wreck the radar?”
“I had to!”
Captain Saunders said, “You also changed the Vulcan’s orbit. Why?”
“Same answer, sir. I had to.”
Inspector Adams was not satisfied. “Don’t you realize that you’re in trouble? You’re in a lot of trouble, young man, and I’d suggest you cooperate.”
“I’m sorry. I have nothing to say.”
“Were you changing the Vulcan’s orbit so that friends of yours could — uh, meet the ship in deep space?”
“No.”
“Then why did you change the orbit?”
“To prevent piracy.”
“To prevent it?”
“Yes! If the orbit were changed, the pirates would rendezvous with nothing but the void.”
“How did you know pirates had learned of the Vulcan’s orbit?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why did you destroy the radar?”
“For the same reason. I’d been discovered; the altered orbit would be discovered too. I wrecked the radar to delay blast-off.”
Inspector Adams frowned. “Well, in that you were successful. It will be at least a day before the Vulcan takes off.”
“Good!”
“Good? Do you realize you’ll cost the company a pretty penny? That’s a Gorham liner, and the Gorham ships are never late, which is why they’re the largest outfit. This delay might cost them cancellation of a contract. But that’s not the point. You are, Hodges. You did all this for a reason. I still don’t know that.”
Captain Saunders shook his head sadly. “I never would have suspected it of him, not of Pete. It’s funny, how sometimes you can be wrong about people. Or how a family can change so fast. Big Pete Hodges was a great man but look at his son — I just don’t understand. Pete — tell me, Pete — is there something you’re hiding? If you told us everything now, if you made a clean breast of it. . . .”
“No! I said I have nothing to say.”
“How did you know about these alleged pirates?” Inspector Adams demanded again.
“I just knew,” Pete told him lamely.
“Maybe you just had a hunch!”
“All right,” Pete said wearily. “Call it that if you want, a hunch.”
“A hunch! Bah! I see we’ll have no cooperation from you, Hodges. You leave no alternative. I’m having a warrant issued for your arrest, and you’ll be jailed until a hearing is arranged.”
“Can’t you leave him with me?” Captain Saunders suggested. “I’ll be responsible.” And, when Inspector Adams shook his head, “Then how about his father, Big Pete Hodges. You know of him?”
“I do.”
“Why couldn’t you leave Pete in his father’s custody? Maybe after a while he’ll be ready to talk, and you can save the family the disgrace of prison.”
Inspector Adams shook his head again. “Wouldn’t do. This young man is innocent until proven guilty, naturally. But he’ll have to remain in custody until a hearing. Of course, bail could be raised.”
“What will the charge be?” Captain Saunders wanted to know. Pete could sense an ambivalence in the tower officer. Captain Saunders had liked him, and now the man did not know what to do. Pete had been caught red-handed. Very well, he was guilty. But of what — and why?
“The charge?” said Inspector Adams, “Um-m-m-m, I don’t know. That’s not really my department. Vandalism, probably, if they can’t prove anything else. But obviously, there’s more here than meets the eye. A responsible lad doesn’t just change an orbit and mess up a ship’s radar without a reason.”
Captain Saunders scratched his head. “He once wanted to change an orbit before, but I didn’t let him. The Crape Ring it was.”
“Crape Ring, eh? Say, wasn’t that the ship
which was looted out off Luna?”
Captain Saunders nodded. “Yes, it was.”
“And you say he didn’t change the orbit?”
“That’s right, Inspector. He didn’t. Soon after that, the ship was looted.”
“‘Then apparently he knew of these pirate activities that time too, only he couldn’t do anything about it. The part I can’t figure out is this: what’s his connection, and how did he get his information? You still won’t talk, Hodges?”
Pete remained tight lipped, shaking his head.
“Very well. I’ll have to phone in for that warrant.”
Advances in the science of psychology had minimized criminal activity. As a consequence, the White Sands prison was a small building, hardly looking like a jailhouse at all, except for the bars on the window. And when Pete arrived under Inspector Adams’ watchful eye, he was the only prisoner.
They took his fingerprints, photographed him, deposited him in a small cell. The bunk was comfortable enough; there was a tap of running ice water, a shower, a bathroom. But he could see the three bars running vertically across the small window.
He was in prison.
He knew he’d made a terrible mess of things. He’d have settled for anything but this. The son of Big Pete Hodges, in prison. It didn’t bother him, not for himself. He deserved anything they gave him. But what about Big Pete? And what about his mother? They’d raised a son, they’d been proud of him, like all parents. Sure, it was a great disappointment and probably a deep hurt when they learned he could not go to space. But they still had faith in him,, and he had let them down. Big Pete had liked his son’s desire to work at the Spaceport, despite all the memories and the longings it might bring. And now Pete was in prison.
He sat glumly on his bunk, staring at the wall. He could never face his father again.
But just one hour later, Big Pete arrived at the White Sands prison. The turnkey let him into the little cell, and Pete averted his head.
“I came as soon as I heard, Pete.” Big Pete’s voice was almost a whisper. “It’s a mistake, isn’t it?”
“Please go away.”
“It is a mistake! Tell me, Pete.”
No answer.
“They’ve set the bail at only five hundred dollars. I’ll have you out of here in a few minutes.”
“No, you won’t. I’d rather stay, Pop. Don’t look so surprised, please. Don’t you see, what would I do on the outside? People will look, people will talk . . .”
“What you’re trying to say is that it isn’t a mistake. You have done something, Pete! But the officer who called me wasn’t very clear. Something about wrecking some equipment —”
Pete nodded. “Yes, something like that. But no bail. I won’t leave here, not until they give me a hearing and decide what to do.”
“I don’t understand you. You sound as if you’re ready to quit without a fight. . . .”
“No. I did something wrong. I’m going to be punished.” If he remained in prison long enough, perhaps Ganymede Gus would recruit someone else for the pirates.
“That night at home,” Big Pete was saying, “when you came in late after leaving your own welcome-home party — it has something to do with that, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you still won’t talk?”
“No.”
“Won’t let me get you out of here?”
“No.”
Big Pete shuffled about the cell for a moment, came to the door and gripped the bars in his big, strong hands. “I hope you can tell me some day, son. I hope we can talk about this and laugh. I hope —”
The bent old turnkey poked his head in from the corridor outside. “Rattlin’ them bars ‘cause you’re fixin’ to go? Okay, I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”
Pete watched them go in silence, the little turnkey and the big ex-spaceman, his father. Before he reached the end of the corridor, Big Pete turned around once and said, “Remember, son, if you change your mind about anything, I’m near by.”
“Well,” Mr. Fairchild said smugly, “it certainly looks as if we’re ready for phase two of our operations.”
Ganymede Gus peered out the window of their little upstairs room doubtfully. Below him the Carnival crowds surged and eddied.
“Yes and no,” he said. “What you forget is this: we haven’t got an orbiteer. Pete Hodges is in jail.”
Mr. Fairchild waved his hand deprecatingly. “So what? Although I wish to thank you, Gus, for getting that information so fast. You don’t think I intend to leave Peter in prison, do you?”
Sam Smith sat up eagerly, puffing on a big black cigar, “You mean we’re gonna spring him — me and Clare?”
The man called Clarence Roth jumped to his feet. “Cut that out! You know I don’t like to be called that —”
Sam Smith yawned and studied his thick fingernails, but Mr. Fairchild said, “No bickering, gentlemen, please. As for ‘springing’ Peter, I’m surprised at you, Sam. We don’t operate like that. I feel that you intimate physical violence, and really, I have no such thing in mind.”
Sam Smith looked very disappointed.
“But,” continued Mr. Fairchild, “we will remove Peter from his unpleasant environment.”
“We’d better act soon,” Gus suggested. “We’ll be leaving for the South in about six hours.”
Sam Smith brightened. “Me, I never been down there before! You’re sure we’ll be safe? I mean — well, you know that place.”
“The plans call for it,” Mr. Fairchild assured him. “Frankly, I thought you would be the last one to worry, Sam. At any rate, you needn’t; for everything is in readiness down there, that is, if Gus has made our reservations . . .”
“Like you said, boss, I chartered a jet plane. At first they wanted to send a pilot along too, so I had to show them my phony license . . .”
“You do know how to fly, Gus?”
“Me? What do you think! I used to pilot spaceships. What’s a little jet plane after you’ve tackled those babies?”
“Did you say chartered, Gus?”
“Well, yeah. For a whole year I had to charter it, especially when I told them we’d be heading south, all the way. Naturally, they thought I meant as far as Tierra del Fuego — they never dreamed anyone would want to go where we’re going . . .”
“Good. That is precisely the way I wanted it. I hope the jet plane has radar, for we’ll need it.”
“Radar and everything,” Gus nodded. “New ship.”
“Then we’re all set for our journey. Now, about Peter . . .”
“Like your dinner, son?” The old turnkey removed the tray from Pete’s cell. He had a long face and a lonely face, and it looked to Pete as if he wanted to talk,
“Oh, sure. It was fine.”
“Cooked it myself, son. Sure did. Notice how dark it gets around these parts nights when there ain’t no moon.
“Very dark,” Pete agreed, staring into the gathering gloom outside his window.
“How long you lived in these parts?” the old turnkey demanded. Then, not waiting for an answer, “Myself, I been living here all my life. That’s sixty years, son. Do you like this place?” And, again before Pete could reply, “Me, I like it fine. Only trouble is, the Spaceport brought too many outsiders. Y’know, I was just a kid, but I c’n remember the days of the old proving grounds an’ the early rockets. We come a long way, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Pete agreed.
“Course, a flight out to Mars or some such place is just a bit of routine nowadays, but still . . .”
“Have you ever been out there?” Pete wanted to know.
“Me? Son, you’re lookin’ at the wrong turnkey! ‘Cept for a trip to Las Vegas once, I never left New Mexico. This is a right nice stretch of Earth we have here; I ain’t seen no need to leave it.”
Pause. Then “Son, did you hear something?”
Pete listened. “Why, yes! Yes, I did. Sort of like a hissing sound.”
“T
hat’s what I meant!”, the turnkey shouted triumphantly. “First I thought my ears were playing tricks. They do that now an’ again, y’know. But you heard it too.”
It came again, a slow hissing, like air escaping from a leak in an inflated balloon.
“You feel all right, son?”
“Yes. At least, I think so. I’m a little tired.” Pete stretched languidly, found himself yawning.
“Me too. Funny, ‘cause I had plenty of sleep last night. Guess I’m getting old.” The old man staggered off down the corridor. “Think I’ll turn on the phonograph. Music’s liable to keep me awake.”
Soon the music was blaring forth, an old record, very tinny. Pete yawned again, blinked his eyes. He stretched out on his bunk was dimly aware of the turnkey stumbling back toward his cell.
“Didn’t help, I’m afraid. More tired than ever . . .”
With an effort, Pete opened his eyes. The turnkey had fallen to the floor, was breathing regularly. As if from far away, the music ebbed and flowed in Pete’s ear. Something had happened to the old phonograph; the needle was stuck —
De de dum — de de dum — de de dum —
Pete heard footsteps in the corridor outside. He wanted to open his eyes again, wanted to see who was approaching. But his lids were like lead. He heard voices talking in a great empty gulf, heard the loud jingling of keys. With much squeaking of hinges, the cell door opened. But by that time Pete was fast asleep. . . .
Night at a small airfield outside White Sands. A big jet plane idled nearby. Toward it walked a good looking man in a neat business suit, an older man, gnarled, with a craggy face, a powerful, stocky man, a tall, impossibly thin man. The stocky man carried something over his shoulder. It was a sack, almost shapeless,, but it could have held a human form within it.
The gnarled man with the craggy face talked to an official of the small airport, gave him a large sum of money. Then, together with his three companions and their mysterious bundle, he entered the jet plane.
Soon it had roared across the landing strip, its jets flashing fire. In another moment it soared up into the inky sky and streaked away toward the southern horizon.
Earthbound (Winston Science Fiction Book 1) Page 8