Parker laughed derisively. “Yeah—we’d threaten to chastise ’em severely if they didn’t surrender! We’re so well equipped to make ’em behave—armed to the gills an’ all that.”
“I mean it,” Sarett insisted. “We can take the ship—and it shouldn’t be very difficult. When they make a transfer from one boat to another—ITL boats, that is—they swing toward each other till their airlocks touch, and the openings are sealed together with the rubber collars that rim the ’locks. Isn’t that right?” They nodded. “And after the transfer is made, both ’locks are sealed, the connection is broken, and the deserted ship is pulled along on a trailer cable. Right?”
“Sure,” Cory grunted, “that’s elementary. So what?”
“Simply this. First we get as close as possible to the Vulcan’s orbit. Then we get into space suits, check them for leaks, and stop the air purifiers; after that we tap out about a quart of rocket fuel from the tanks, mix it with a little Martian garra soil, and set it afire. I needn’t tell you what’ll happen to anyone breathing the fumes. One whiff will paralyze them for an hour or two . . . Well, when everything’s set, we start the SOS signal. Then when they pick us up, and our airlock opens, and their airlock opens—tell me, will it work?” Parker began pacing the floor excitedly. “Damned if it doesn’t look feasible!” he exclaimed. “Crew, passengers, everybody knocked out. We’d only have to tie ’em up an’ carry ’em into this tub. We could set ’em adrift or drag ’em after us, droppin’ ’em some place where they’d be picked up. Or even better, we could stow ’em down below somewhere, ’cause they can’t breathe hydro-garra fumes too long an’ live.” He stopped short. “Yeah—but what if the Vulcan doesn’t stop?” Sarett shrugged. “Then we’d be exactly where we are now. But they will stop. Space law demands it.”
The cool voice of Jones came to them from the controls. “Why all the objections? The plan has a chance of succeeding—I don’t think any of us have a better suggestion—so let’s go!”
And so it was decided. After computing the probable position of the Vulcan with the utmost care, they sent the little supply ship roaring through space at top speed. Cory was at the controls. Several hours would elapse before they reached the passenger lane; while they waited, Parker prepared a hurried meal; Jones broke out the space suits, and Sarett made ready the mixture of rocket fuel and garra oil. After they had eaten they ranged themselves before the tele-screens . . . waiting.
On and on the little craft sped. An hour passed—another—and suddenly Cory exclaimed:
“Almost there!”
With forward rocket vents he Checked their pace and carefully jockeyed the Minerva into position. Behind him the others got busy. In less than ten minutes the stage was set. All four were clad in the clumsy balloonlike suits used for exposure in airless space, a dome of glass forming their head-gear. Individual radio transmitters and receivers in each suit made communication possible. The purifiers had been checked, and from a smallmouthed vessel in the middle of the control room rose barely visible clouds of lethal vapor. The televisor was sending an automatic SOS into the void.
Anxiously the four watched the screens, waiting for the sensitive instrument to pick up sight of the passenger cruiser. And it came—a speck of moving light against the silver-splashed backdrop of space.
Instantly Sarett sprang to the televisor. Plugging a wire into his speaker, he connected it with the instrument, switched off the automatic distress signal, and sent his own voice through the ether.
“First Lieutenant Freeman of supply ship Minerva. We’re out of fuel; we’ve drifted far off our course. Our air purifiers are out of order and our supply of oxygen is exhausted. Can you take us aboard?” He waited—and a reply came.
“Pilot Turner of the Vulcan. We hear you, Minerva. By order of Spacemaster Stuart we are swinging alongside. Be ready to transfer.”
“Check, Vulcan. We are ready.” Alan broke contact, switched off the televisor, and turned to the others.
“Take it fast,” he snapped grimly. “Speed is what we’ll need.”
TENSELY they watched the approaching cruiser, her sunward side gleaming like the head of a comet. Rocket blasts shot alternately from forward, rear, and lateral vents as the pilot eased the Vulcan closer to the smaller craft. In moments both spheres were flashing along at equal velocity, side by side.
Cory flung over the lever that opened the inner door of the airlock; it filled rapidly with the almost invisible vapor. Voiceless, the four crouched in the doorway. There was a brittle tension in the air, as though something tremendous were gathering its forces to shatter itself.
Now they heard the clash of metal against metal as giant cables flung out huge magnetized hooks which seized metal rings set in the Minerva’s surface. There were other scraping sounds, the clamping of airlock to airlock. Then silence. And in another instant a sharp tapping on the metal door. At Sarett’s nod, Parker thrust back a lever—and they were gazing along a wide passageway into the Vulcan!
Nine men crouched there, three of them officers, the other six men of the crew. And each gripped a grimly pointing rocket pistol!
For half a breath the four mutineers stood as though stunned. Their escape had been reported, Sarett thought swiftly—then too much happened too quickly for thought. The Space-master gesturing with his pistol, his lips moving in curt, unheard words; a hand leaping to his throat in sudden surprise and annoyance; his knees buckling! Even as he sagged floorward, Alan saw his eyes strike the glass encased face of Jones, saw those eyes widen with incredulous recognition—then he sank limply on his face.
Seconds, it took; and others were falling, too startled to remember their weapons. The four charged swiftly toward the crumbling mass. One of the crew, still alert, whipped back a lever with lightning speed—the door shot shut—but Cory was quicker! His long body, darting ahead, leaped fully into the opening! And the ponderous metal disc crashed against him!
There was a horrible crunching sound, a raglike sagging of Cory’s body—then a strange cessation of all motion. A stunned instant—and Sarett led the others in a leap toward the door. They flung their weight against it, thrusting it along its grooved track, its catch clicking into place. Cory slumped forward, and Sarett caught him. Gently he lowered him to the floor, ignoring everything else.
“Cory—is it—are you badly hurt?” He shook him gently, his face grim, his words only audible to himself. “Cory—did—did they get you?”
Wearily the other’s eyes opened. He smiled faintly, struggling to speak. Then Sarett saw his lips form the words:
“Get Brodeur!” And he died.
White with fury, a dull ache in his chest, Alan Sarett leaped erect and glared about. The floor was strewn with unconscious space-men. Parker and Jones were not in sight. Warily he moved along the hallway, stepping over the still bodies. He entered the main corridor. Here a man lay, his feet twisted awkwardly beneath him. There another—then a woman. He passed them with only a casual glance, his eyes searching for his two companions. Then he saw them, approaching rapidly.
When they were close enough, Parker spoke, his half-grin expressing great satisfaction. “They’re all under—couldn’t find a single one conscious.” Then he saw Sarett’s solemn face, and his own sobered. “Is it bad?”
“Cory’s dead.” Sarett’s nostrils dilated, and his eyes narrowed. “By damn—Brodeur will pay—for him and Tull!”
Solemnly Parker nodded. “We can’t help Cory—but we won’t let ’im down. Two of us now—but we’ll show that crimp that two’s plenty!”
“Three, you mean,” Jones said. “Don’t forget me. We’re all out to get Brodeur, you know.”
Sarett and Parker snapped hard, suspicious glances at the other. There seemed to be a sneer in his voice, but he met their scrutiny with a stare of bland innocence.
“Don’t you think we’d better get those sleepers down below in the hold?” he asked. “I’d like to get out of this suit, and we’ve got to clear the air first.”
�
��Yeah,” Sarett growled. Parker only nodded. There were bitter words on his tongue, eager for expression, but he swallowed them.
In grim silence they set to work.
Morosely Alan Sarett and Lief Parker stared into the Vulcan’s tele-screens. On all facets save one was the blackness of space, the hard twinkle of distant suns, and the softer gleam of scattered planets—in all but one and in that lay the blinding Solar disc rimmed by its awesome corona. A spectacular sight, sharp against the blackness. Not far away floated Mercury, like a polished copper coin, tiny world of unbearable heat and wealth beyond reckoning.
BUT the two Space-masters barely saw either body; their thoughts were of other things.
“The more I see of this Jones,” Parker was saying, “the less I want to see of him.”
Sarett frowned. “I know. He seems to be carrying a crooked cargo. Yet we can’t condemn a man just because we don’t like him.”
“The hell we can’t!” Parker grunted. “I can!” He paused. “Ever since we put him in charge of the prisoners down below, he’s been walkin’ around with that damned smirk on his loud speaker—an’ I don’t like it! I’ve watched him, an’ everythin’ seems okay, but I don’t believe it is!” His lips set in sudden determination. “Hell—why talk about it? I’m goin’ to lay him out where he can’t do any damage.”
“You’ll do what, Mr. Parker?” Parker and Sarett whirled at a suave voice behind them; stared into the steady muzzles of two rocket pistols! In the doorway stood the man who called himself Walter Jones, still smiling his shallow smile! A single curse escaped Parker; then he was silent.
“The little farce is over, gentlemen,” Jones said amiably. “You’ve served your purpose quite well, and your freedom is now at an end. I’ve decided against killing you, however—unless you compel me to do so.” He half turned, though his eyes and pistols did not waver.
“Come in, boys!”
In from the corridor strode two men in the garb of Officers—Spacemaster Stuart and one of his Lieutenants. Each held a weapon in one hand and a coil of rope in the other!
“Meet two of my assistants,” Jones said. “Both are men of integrity and discretion, not to mention—”
“Hell!” Parker roared through his teeth, his throat corded with rage, “cut the comedy! If you want to say somethin’, spill it! If you don’t, shut up, an’ do somethin’ !”
Sarett remained silent, his narrowed eyes watching every move of the three before him.
The smile froze on Jones’ face. “Very well,” he said slowly. “Would it interest you to know that I am Max Brodeur?”
“Brodeur!” As one Sarett and Parker gasped the name. Alan’s thoughts reeled. Brodeur—here! And these two space-men were his aides!
“Yes, Brodeur!” All suavity was gone from his voice now; it sounded a harsh monotone through the control room. “Max Brodeur in that hell-pit—because of your talking! Yes; your meddling caused an investigation—and they condemned me to the Pit for life! I should kill you—but I have a better idea. You were so kind as to bring us this close to Mercury—and that’s where you’ll spend the next six or eight months—if you live that long! Slaves in the radium mines! Perhaps you’ve heard how those mines affect the workers—radium bums—terrible sores—blindness—insanity . . . I’m sure it will be far more satisfactory than merely killing you!
“Tie them up, boys!”
As the space-men approached, Sarett’s thoughts raced wildly. To hurl himself at those ready pistols would be suicide, but to let them fie him would be just as certain, if slower, death. There was one chance—a desperate one—
He heard Brodeur’s voice: “Turn around with your hands behind you!”
As he turned, a space-man grasped his wrists; he felt the rope circle them—and he leaped toward the controls he knew so well!
His body struck the master switch, wrenching it open. A rocket blast roared past him knifing into the control panel—and utter darkness fell upon the cruiser! The room roared into a bedlam. With alarmed cries the spacemen fell back toward Brodeur; and a hail of fire poured over the spot where Sarett and Parker had been standing. But neither was there; with the darkness they had dropped; were rolling toward their three assailants.
The light of the pistols might have revealed their position, but everything happened too rapidly. One moment they were standing passively; the next, in darkness, they were rolling across the floor; the third, they had seized the three and had hurled them from their feet! Brodeur crashed upon Sarett; Parker had tackled the other two.
Flaming rocket pistols whirled and clattered into blackness—and it was man to man in the dark!
With wild, fierce exultation Sarett flung his hands upward about the body, seeking a throat. The words flamed through his brain—get Brodeur! They were on their feet—reeled apart to close again instantly. The shock of their meeting was like the clap of hands.
Get Brodeur! Alan’s lips curled wolfishly. This was the man who had ordered him to that Jovian hell! This, the Uranian slaver. This, the man responsible for the death of Cory, of Tull! Crimson battle-flame flared within him, tempered with a cold, cold fury. One hand ground into a thick shoulder; the other lashed heavily against a lean jaw.
GROWLING a curse, Brodeur grasped Alan’s throat with both hands; and as Sarett wrenched free he felt a foot land heavily against his shin. Pain burned fiery hot through the outraged bone, and he wrapped his arms about Brodeur in red rage. A short arm jab glanced from his chin and he rocked back on his heels—then lunged forward again, into a clinch. Their legs coiled about each other, and they dropped to the floor. Over and over they rolled, striking blow after blow, gouging, kicking like two beasts, all reason gone from their struggle.
Suddenly they were on their feet again, striking blows through the darkness. Brodeur stumbled—and Alan caught him in a deadly grip that came unsought. One arm gripped him viselike beneath the shoulders; the other hand thrust upward against his chin.
Alan’s fingers ground his lips against his teeth, and the leverage forced his head steadily backward. Dimly he heard Brodeur suck in a tortured breath; and an awful scream tore through the darkness. He eased the pressure for an instant—then he remembered Cory gasping out his life—and his muscles tightened grimly.
Brodeur wrapped his legs about Alan’s body in a last desperate grip, fear of death pouring strength into his thighs. As the pressure grew, straining about him painfully, Sarett suddenly flung himself face downward upon the floor, his full weight striking the head and bent neck of Max Brodeur. There was a dull, nauseating snap, and he lay still.
Slowly Alan rose, panting hoarsely, reaction trembling in his limbs. He listened for sounds of Lief Parker and his two combatants; heard:
“C’mon—c’mon! Can’t a guy get a decent fight in this corner o’ space? Two of you—an’ you break like eggs!
. . . Hey, Alan, how you doin’ ?”
“It’s—over,” Alan answered. “Let’s have a light.” He groped toward the control panel; fumbled till he found the master switch; closed it.
Light flickered on in the chamber, uncertain light that wavered with the vibration of loose connections. It revealed three men lying awkwardly on the rocket blasted floor. One would never move again. Life still clung to the other two . . . It revealed a control panel hopelessly etched and burned by a barrage of rocket blasts. Miraculously, two facets of the tele-screen had survived the holocaust; in one flamed an image of the sun. And it was spreading out, filling the screen—leaping up at them with frightful speed!
They were falling into the sun!
Instantly Sarett leaped to the controls, flung on checking rocket blasts—but there was no response. He tried again—futilely. He shrugged. No sense in attempting to repair this ruin before him. He looked at Parker in silence.
Lief Parker’s lips twisted in his onesided grin, his eye half dosing. “Looks bad, eh? Well—we’ll be goin’ the way Tull an’ Cory went—an’ we’re takin’ that crimp with us!” He ges
tured toward the floor. “I’m satisfied.”
Sarett scowled. “But those passengers and Space-men down below—” He stopped short, a slow smile appearing on his face. “Say—we must be slipping! The Minerva! What’s to prevent our clearing her atmosphere, refueling her from the Vulcan’s tank, and blasting in under her power? It’ll take a good while for us to fall forty-odd million miles—we’ll have plenty of time to make the change.”
Parker’s grin spread itself to the other side of his mouth. “So that’s what brains are for!” he exclaimed.
“We’ll land on the moon,” Alan continued, “and radio the ITL headquarters on Earth about the Vulcan. And after that—well, we’ll be outlawed, I suppose—”
Parker interrupted excitedly, “Say—I know what we’ll do after that! We’ll grab us one of those new interstellar ships from the shops on the moon, an’ we’ll roam the sky as we damn’ please! We’ll—hell, we’ll see an’ do plenty! Is it a go?”
Alan Sarett looked at the other panel of the tele-screen which had escaped the barrage of pistol fire. There were a million worlds out there, gleaming like eyes, glaring at him with a cold, challenging light. Worlds—with adventures enough for a million lifetimes. A warmth appeared on his face reflecting an inner glow. His hand shot out and gripped Parker’s—hard.
“It’s a go,” he said.
DUST
Was the human race ready for so vast an amount of radium? Could men be trusted yet with its infinite power for good and evil? ferry Blaine pondered that—as he hurtled Earthward with his incredible cargo!
On the night of August 10th, at 9:38, astronomers on the west coast of the United States observed the sudden appearance of an amazingly brilliant meteor in the Constellation Virgo. It sped across the sky like a lance of silver radiance, until suddenly it vanished in the pallid light of the Moon . . .
JERRY BLAINE plodded wearily across the rugged face of a dead world. The weighted legs of his space suit stumbled over the jagged ribs of lava skeletons; he plowed and floundered through shadowed ravines, yard-deep with the accumulated cosmic dust of uncounted ages; he crawled with metal-clad fingers up precipitous walls of craters.
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