The Seventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by H. B. Fyfe

  “Now, listen!” said Willard. “You’ll absolutely have to stop blushing like that, or the color of the skin is going to come all wrong!”

  “I can’t help it,” she said meekly. Then she saw he was laughing at her, and gave him a rueful smile. “Where did all that modesty come from? It was the shock, I suppose.”

  “All right, it was funny. When we get out on the street again, forget all about what’s funny! Look like a serious Greenie!”

  “Funny?” objected Maria. “I always thought I made a pretty fair showing in comparison to the local gals.”

  “Oh, you did, you did! One of the best showings I’ve ever seen.”

  He pressed a hand to each side of her waist, then slid them up her ribs until the weight of her breasts rested against his wrists.

  “We’ll talk about this again when we make it to the ship,” he told her in a low voice. “Right now, it would be foolish to spoil this make-up.”

  He turned away after a long moment and returned the kit to the chest. They left by the same door by which they had entered, but Willard knew a short way out to a different street. Maria thought it must be the one outside the high windows. He set off at a businesslike pace.

  They traveled about a quarter of a mile, counting several turns by which he sacrificed directness for sparsely peopled streets. The disguises must have been effective, for they drew no second glances. It was not until she saw the gibbet that Maria realized they were approaching the outskirts of the city.

  “What—?” she began, sensing the reality of her plight for the first time.

  “Quiet! Look the other way, if you must, but don’t be obvious about it.”

  Several examples of rigid Greenhaven justice were on ex­hibit to a modest crowd. Three men and two women sat in stocks. They were not, apparently, subject to rock-throwing or other abuse, as Maria seemed to remember had been the custom on ancient Terra; but they were clearly unhappy and mortified. From the gibbet behind them swung the body of a hanged man. It appeared to have been there for some time. Maria wondered what he had done to corrupt the morals or the economics of Greenhaven.

  What nearly made her sick was the sight of a party of two dozen children being guided on a tour of the place. One youngster whined, and was thoroughly cuffed by the Greenie in charge.

  Then they were past, and Maria saw the high cyclone fence of the Terran spaceport. Willard took a look at her face. Seemingly satisfied, he explained that they had come to a section well away from the main entrance. He led her along the fence for perhaps a hundred yards, found a small gate, and unlocked it with a key produced from under his belt. Maria, remembering their exit from the jail, was not surprised to feel a good-natured slap on the bottom as she stepped onto Terran land. There was another quarter-mile to go, but it was open land.

  “We have it made now,” said Willard, locking the gate be­hind them.

  They by-passed the administration and custom buildings, and headed directly for the field elevator beside the wait­ing spaceship, ignoring the possibility of causing inquiries to be made by local eagle-eyes who might think they had seen two Greenies board the vessel.

  “Willard, of the Department of Interstellar Relations,” he introduced himself to a surprised ship’s officer. “You’ve been told to expect Miss Ringstad?”

  The officer, staring in bald disbelief at Maria’s costume, admitted that the ship was more or less being held for her arrival.

  “One thing was unexpected,” said Willard. “I am exercis­ing my authority to demand a cabin for myself as well. I have reason to suspect that my disguise had been penetrated, which, of course, makes it very dangerous for me.”

  “Of course,” agreed the officer. “Let’s go, by all means!”

  “Yes,” said Maria. “I want to get out of this awful rig.”

  “That’s what I meant,” said Willard.

  There was no doubt that the influence behind Willard had held the ship for them. It rose as soon as they could reach a pair of tiny cabins. Later, after the first surge of the take­off, there were a number of delays stretching between minor course corrections.

  Finally, it was announced over the public address system that because of precautionary checking of the course, there would be no spin to simulate planetary gravity for about two hours. Maria hoped that she would not be revealed as the cause to the disgruntled passengers.

  She was still considering this and trying to disentangle herself from the acceleration net slung in the ten-foot cubicle they were pleased to call a cabin, when Willard arrived.

  “I made friends with some of the crew,” he announced. “Everybody likes to help out a D.I.R. agent. It must strike them as romantic.”

  “They should know,” said Maria, thinking of the long, sus­penseful walk through Greenhaven’s streets.

  “There was a stewardess who had extra slacks and blouse about your size.”

  “You must have a good eye,” she told him. “Or think you have, anyhow. First, get me out of this thing. What with this Greenie outfit too, I might as well be in a straitjacket!”

  He pushed himself over to the net and began to open the zipper. She saw that he had taken time to remove his “Greenie” face.

  Her first motion, when the net was open, sent her tumbling head over heels to the far bulkhead.

  “Keep a grip on something,” laughed Willard. “Here—I brought a small kit along. Let me fix your face.”

  She obediently clung to the anchoring shock springs at one end of the net and turned her face up so that he could work on the mask he had earlier painted on. His fingers were gentle, smoothing in the cream he had brought and rubbing off the make-up with lightly perfumed tissues. Maria closed her eyes luxuriously and thought how pleasant it was to be off Greenhaven.

  “Was it very complicated, getting me out of there?” she asked.

  “There were a lot of angles to think of,” he answered, “but we pulled it off as slickly as I’ve ever seen done. Just strolled right out through them all. Things in this business don’t often go that well to plan. There—now you look human again, just like when I started to put that face on you.”

  “Not exactly,” smiled Maria, plucking ruefully at the native Mother Hubbard, which billowed hideously about her in the zero gravity.

  “That’s easily changed,” Willard said, meeting her smile significantly. “See if you can find your way out any better than you did getting into it, while I sort out the clothes I got for us.”

  Between the reaction from the strain of the past few hours and a glow of gratitude toward her rescuer. Maria began to sense the stir of an emotion within her that took a few moments to recognize. It surprised her a little.

  “Willard,” she said lazily, “it’s funny, but I feel just as if I’m falling in love with you.”

  “That’s interesting,” grinned the agent. “About time, too.”

  “I can’t tell if my knees are weak,” she went on, laying a hand on his shoulder to draw herself closer, “because I’m hanging in mid-air; but you always seem to be making me strip—and I find myself not minding.”

  “I don’t mind either!” he assured her.

  When his arm slipped around her waist and he kissed her, Maria was sure. She let her lips part gradually, trembling as the fever rose in her.

  “Let me go a minute,” she murmured.

  Presently, after a few weightless contortions, the muffling Greenhaven flannels were sent swirling into a corner. Maria laughed softly as she set a bare foot against the bulkhead to launch herself back into Willard’s arms.

  EIGHTEEN

  Was it the pain in his head that made everything seem to sway?

  Or was it the swaying that made his head hurt?

  Taranto opened his eyes slowly. For two or three minutes, in the darkness, he did not understand what he saw.

  Gradually, com
prehension developed. He was on a litter again, and the bearers were descending a rough track into a shallow valley. There was no sign of the city or of any other landmark even vaguely familiar. Jagged rocks formed a ridge to his left, curving around to enclose the depression. Other rocky buttes, he saw through slitted eyes, projected from the barren rubble of the valley floor. There seemed to be little sand, unless it had blown down into the lower areas.

  Cautiously, letting his head roll with the lurching motion of the bearers, he learned that another group was ahead. He thought they must be guarding Meyers. The red-uniformed officer marched just preceding Taranto’s litter. That meant that there must be two soldiers behind, out of his view.

  What now? he asked himself. It was a good try, but it didn’t work out.

  It seemed hopeless to attempt anything further until he found out where he was. Nor would it do any harm to learn how he was—they must have crowned him beautifully. He tried to move his arms and legs slightly without being ob­viously restless. Nothing felt broken. There was just the sore throbbing behind his left ear.

  Were they taking him and Meyers further into the desert, to make sure they could properly be reported dead? Or was the party on its way back to the city?

  Taranto moved about stealthily, as the litter heaved from side to side and bounced about with the efforts of his bearers to negotiate outcroppings of rock. He was surprised that his arms and legs were not tied. He wondered how long he had been out cold. Perhaps the Syssokans believed he really was dead from that spear across the skull.

  You shouldn’t have underestimated that guy just because you dropped him a few times, he told himself. You caught on to the difference, but he learned it from you.

  From ahead and lower on the path came voices. There was a brisk breeze, but Taranto thought he could recognize Meyers giving vent to an outraged whine.

  Wonder how much of a grudge they’ll hold? he thought. Some of them must be lumped up pretty good.

  He was beginning to locate a number of scrapes and bruises on his own sturdy frame. He wondered if it might be best to take things easy until they reached either their desert destination or the area outside the city, according to which way they were headed, and then offer to bribe the officer in charge. It would probably be too risky: he would have to rely on large promises, and they had already caught him in a crude whopper. Whatever the case, it would be unwise to open negotiations without finding out what the Syssokan commander looked like. Taranto seemed to recall pasting the fellow pretty thoroughly.

  He caught a few words of Terran, blown back to him by a random gust. Meyers was complaining about being too tired to walk any farther. It did not sound as though he were making his point.

  Of course! Taranto realized. I must be in his stretcher. Mine was busted. Now the slob will put it on me for making him bump his rump along this trail!

  The image was not without humor. Contemplating it gave Taranto a momentary satisfaction.

  Well, they knew Meyers was alive, even if they might not be sure about Taranto himself. Perhaps they were merely sav­ing both Terrans for a longer jail term. Taranto hoped that the Syssokans had nothing more unpleasant in mind. The remarks he had used earlier in his attempt to bluff the officer could be used for inimical purposes by anyone who cared to point out that Syssokan knowledge of Terran physiology was scanty. Then what?

  Taranto decided that he would be foolish to worry along that line at the present. What he needed was an idea for getting loose again. He speculated for a few minutes upon his chances of backtracking to the scene of his attempt at escape. Somewhere near there, in whichever direction it was, a spaceship should be landing.

  If they ain’t been and gone already, he thought.

  In his supine position on the stretcher, he was able to see the sky without moving. That was why the distant trail of light was visible to him for some moments before any of the Syssokans could notice it.

  I can’t wait it out after all, he realized.

  The ship would be heard presently, and the flare of its braking rockets would arouse the guards. Taranto peeked around again and saw that they were nearing the foot of the slope. Following the natural motion of the bearers, he let himself roll a little too far each time the litter swayed. The Syssokans struggled to compensate while scrabbling for safe footholds on the hard, slippery surface.

  In the end, one of them slipped. The litter crashed down. Taranto added a twist to the natural force of gravity, so that he rolled downhill.

  The fallen bearer picked himself up, mumbling something in Syssokan that sounded remarkably belligerent. One of the others moved to recover the stretcher. Taranto kept on rolling.

  At the first yell, he gave up the pretense and regained his feet with a lithe bound. For the next sixty seconds, he needed every last smidgin of concentration to escape taking a fatal spill on the sloping rocks.

  Hurtling downward in great leaps, he was forced to hurdle large rocks because his velocity prevented him from changing course by even a foot. Once he skidded, thinking his time had come. Near the bottom, where the incline curved to meet the horizontal, he did go down, ploughing up a spat­ter of loose chips and pebbles.

  He was up and running again without quite knowing how. A dark shape loomed up before him, a rock twice his height. Before passing it, he took the chance of looking back.

  The litter party was in a state of confusion. The officer and two soldiers were bounding after him, slanting away on a more reasonable path. One Syssokan was still in the process of picking himself up, and most of the others were either milling about or just beginning to heed their leader’s shouts to follow Taranto.

  The intention of yelling to Meyers flashed across his mind but he dismissed it as being useless. A hasty glance in the opposite direction showed him the fire trail settling behind another ridge to his right front. The valley bore a certain resemblance to a meteor crater.

  Taranto sprinted past the huge rock and bore right toward the distant ridge. He would try to locate the ship if and when he reached the ridge. The immediate necessity was to keep out of the clutches of the burial party.

  Running in the starlit darkness was risky, as he soon found. The ground was strewn with occasional patches of loose stone, traps of nature suitable for tripping the unwary or causing a sprain. The only thing that kept Taranto reckless was the sounds of pursuit behind him.

  He had gone about two hundred yards when he realized that some of the rock-scattering noises came from his right more than from behind. The Syssokan were better runners than he, and used to the local terrain besides. He could not tell whether they had seen the trail of the spaceship or, if so, whether they connected it with him.

  But they know enough to head me off, whichever way I go, he thought.

  He came unexpectedly to a patch of sand, and swore as he felt his speed slacken. A desperate glance over his shoulder revealed no pursuers, though he knew they were there somewhere. He could see two runners who had flanked him on the right fifty yards off; and these forced him into bearing away from his desired course.

  Instead of passing to the right of a tall outcropping of rock ahead, he turned left. It took him farther from the direction of the spaceship, but there was no help for it. He floundered over a low dune of sand and then was out of it and running on flat ground. He circled to the left of the hill, hearing a howl from the rear.

  Must have seen me against the open valley, thought Tar­anto. They sound closer than I like.

  He ran on, scanning the shadowed rocks towering over him for a place to climb. It was a foregone conclusion that the two flankers would be on the lookout for him as he came around the hill.

  At last he thought he saw a way up, a sloping ledge lead­ing to a small plateau before the rock reared higher in a sheer cliff. Taranto scrambled over a waist-high boulder and made for the opening. Up he went, on hands and toes. The rock was ridged, but in
the wrong direction, and he slipped to hands and knees twice before he was up.

  He slowed to a quick walk as he reached the level ex­panse. It was ten or twelve feet above the valley floor and curved off to the right around the base of the cliff. Taranto was panting by now, but his main reason for slowing was that he wanted to make less noise until he spotted the two Syssokans he expected to meet.

  The broad ledge he was following dipped, rose a few feet, and dipped again to less than ten feet above the level ground. Taranto flattened himself suddenly.

  The two Syssokans came loping along the shadowy edge of the outcropping, spears at the ready. From around the cliff sounded a call. The first soldier threw back his head to answer. As the howl left his throat, and masked the noise of the Terran’s scrambling, Taranto launched himself upon the back of the second.

  They went down with a thump upon hard rocks. Taranto, saving his ribs from being caved in by fending himself off from a jagged rock with his forearm, kicked out and caught the downed Syssokan in the belly. As the soldier subsided, the Terran snatched up the spear and rose to face the other one.

  It had all gone so fast that the leader was just turning back. Perhaps he thought merely that his companion had fallen, but the stocky silhouette of the spacer disabused him of that idea. He advanced with the point of his spear weaving about menacingly.

  “You think you’re good with that stick, eh?” growled Taranto. “Well, try this for something different!”

  Gripping his spear near the head, he swung the heavier butt like a bat, putting as much power into it as he could. It was crude, but he knew better than to try to match skills with a soldier trained to the use of the weapon.

  The butt cracked resoundingly against the shaft of the Sys­sokan’s spear, tearing it from the grip of his leading hand. Taranto’s own hands were numbed by the shock. He dropped his spear and slid inside the Syssokan’s one-handed grip before it could be reinforced. The feint of a left hook to the belly made the soldier relinquish his weapon completely and grapple with the spacer.

  Taranto found his left arm entwined with the right of the Syssokan. He tried twice to punch to the body with his free hand but was smothered. Before he could think of it himself, the Syssokan stamped hard upon his toes.