by Jerry
But the next morning he paused to exchange a few remarks, and within a week was even tempted to occupy the boulder next to that of Ragnar. Ragnar thought him a queer but likable character. He never suspected that Doctor Bush was a world-famous, if somewhat eccentric, physicist; nor did the Doctor have the least suspicion as to the identity of the man with whom he talked. Ragnar found it convenient to be able to retire to this secluded neighborhood in the Catalinas (he had purchased his property through an agent five years before) for the season’s shooting of quail and white-wing doves. The local people knew him under an assumed name; and while lithely built, possessed of good looks and really abnormal strength, there was nothing, to the casual eye, to distinguish him from a hundred other men. In his profession this was an asset. He sedulously cultivated the art of being inconspicuous.
“Him?” said the local postmaster and storekeeper, speaking of Ragnar. “Oh, he’s an eastern chap, comes here every fall for the huntin’. Name of Brown. Writes for magazines. Yeah, I know all about him; lives in New York.”
As a matter of fact, Ragnar did write occasional articles and stories for the magazines, and under the name of Brown. He was nothing, if not thorough, in creating a part. It was his private conviction that if he took the leisure to perfect his crudities, he would make a great writer—a conviction the editors did not quite share.
“So you write stories,” said the Doctor with a sniff one morning. “What kind of stories?”
“Adventure stories,” said Ragnar modestly. “Here’s a magazine with one of my latest in it.”
He showed a periodical.
“Bah!” said the Doctor. “Bunk! Not your writing,” he finished hastily, since Ragnar flushed; “that may be all right. I mean the idea of your writing about adventure, while I live it.”
The idea of the short-sighted, stooped Doctor living adventure made Ragnar smile.
“Laugh, my boy,” said the Doctor tolerantly, “but there are adventures within the laboratory of which you shooters of deer and quail never dream.” Behind the heavy lenses his eyes shone. “Imagine if you can the thrill of traveling into the atom!”
“Am I to understand that you have?”
“Oh, no! Not yet,” The Doctor hesitated. A queer little man, mused Ragnar indulgently. Slightly touched, of course, like all impractical dreamers.
“But I plan to do so some day. Just now I lack the money to carry on my experiments. That is why,” he said slowly, “I’ve undertaken this other job. Not that I believe in war, but they pay all expenses; and if I’m successful, I’m to get five million—five million.”
“Eh!” said Ragnar.
“I shouldn’t have said a word about it,” muttered the Doctor, anxiously. “It’s all a secret, you know—government secret.”
Government secret! Ragnar started.
“Did you say government secret?”
“Yes; it’s for the government I’m working; but you mustn’t repeat a thing I’ve said. Promise you won’t.”
“I promise,” said Ragnar, but he looked after the Doctor’s retreating back rather thoughtfully. Of course the old man was probably laboring under a delusion, still. . . .
Late that afternoon, after shooting a few quail, he approached the roomy house the Doctor occupied at the end of the deserted Linda Vista road. It was the first time he had gone near it this season. A newly erected heavy mesh wire fence surrounded the ten acres of flat and reasonably clear land comprising the estate. He whistled softly to himself, for under a thatched roof of yucca and bear grass stood a try-sky speeder of most modern make and design. Of course, it might belong to the Doctor, though that seemed improbable. Still whistling softly he skirted the fence to the front of the house and rang the doorbell. The girl who answered his ring was breath-takingly lovely. Her hair was tawny, not blond, not red, an indescribable shade, waving naturally, and she had blue eyes, with freckles on her nose. To the rear of the girl stood a surly man clad in a rumpled blue suit, gross, puffy of jowls, yet powerful looking for all that. His greenish eyes, surprisingly large and heavy-lidded, probed Ragnar’s face.
“Sorry,” he said in a husky voice, “but the Doctor’s busy, can’t see any visitors today.”
The girl had been crying; her eyes were red.
“Who shall I tell my father called to see him?” she asked.
“Brown,” said Ragnar carelessly. “My land lies over the ridge there. I’m your father’s nearest neighbor.”
“Now who in the devil,” he muttered to himself as he trudged away, “could that fellow be?”
In the hallway of the house Ragnar had quitted, the puffy-jowled man with the green eyes faced the girl.
“I hope,” he said in a husky whisper, “that your good father has not been indiscreet. That would be too bad, too bad indeed.”
“My father,” said the girl quietly, “talks to no one. He mentioned meeting this man on his morning walks.”
“So.” His heavy-lidded eyes swept her lingeringly, the look was amorous, almost a caress. She shrank under it. The man smiled, a smile not good to see, and turned away. In the laboratory, the Doctor looked up with a start.
“Is that you, Mr. Miller?”
“Yes,” said the other with a perfunctory handshake. “I arrived only a few minutes ago. How are things coming along?”
“Splendidly,” glowed the Doctor. “There is progress, yes. In fact I might say. . . .” He broke off, laughed exultantly. “Look; do you see that instrument there?” The base of it was a square box of blued steel, one side of which rose some five feet in the air. This side was studded with what appeared to be round disks of brass. The top of the box, jutting at right angles to the brass-studded side and giving the whole machine the appearance of a large chair or desk, was smooth, and bare of anything save two graduated dials. Stepping to this control board, the Doctor busied himself turning them. Somewhere in the depths of the box, a motor began to purr, the brass studs turned red-hot, then white. Apparently nothing else happened, but he called out to the heavy-lidded man, “Will you please walk towards me.”
The latter obeyed. Midway in his stride he came to an abrupt stop. “God!” he exclaimed in his husky whisper, “I can’t go any further.”
“No,” cried the Doctor, “nor could a cannon-ball. You see I did not exaggerate. I told the Department then that I could build a wonderful war weapon from my initial discovery if time and expenses—and a sum for the invention—were allowed me. At first I was ignored; but later, through you. . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said the heavy-lidded man, his green eyes sparkling, “this is marvelous; all we expected.” Then abruptly: “Who is this neighbor of yours?”
“Neighbor?”
“The one you’ve been meeting on your walks?”
The Doctor flushed.
“Oh, you mean Brown. Owns the property the other side of the hill. New York man. Writes adventure stories. Comes here every season for the hunting.”
“Haven’t been telling him what you’re working on?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“You don’t believe!”
“Maybe I did say I was working on a process for the government.”
“My God! Of all the damn dumb——”
“Nothing else though,” interrupted the Doctor.
The puffy-jowled Mr. Miller’s face turned turkey-red.
“Fool! When you were warned never to say a word.” The Doctor’s stooped figure straightened with a jerk. “Really, Mr. Miller, I resent your language.”
The other growled an apology.
“I guess this Brown’s all right. He’ll probably never think twice of what you said. If you’ll explain at length how this machine works, Doctor . . .
The Doctor obliged.
“As you see, everything is encased within metal; the machine is simple to operate. As for the plans, the data on which the invention is based, they are there,” he gestured to a pile of blue-prints and note books. “You can turn them over to the Department engineers
any time you wish now. Then,” he said with a sigh of relief, “I’ll get my check.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Miller with a peculiar smile, “you’ll get your check.”
THINKING of the beautiful girl, of the try-sky speeder under the thatched roof, of the puffy-jowled man and what the little Doctor had told him about working for the Government, Ragnar cooked his supper thoughtfully, ate with appetite, and washed the dishes. He never employed help. Usually, unless too tired or too late, he walked the mile and a half to the Mountain View Hotel and dined there. As he smoked a cigarette before turning in, he pondered the situation. The Government had its own laboratories, well equipped, guarded. It wouldn’t be apt to commission a scientist to conduct physical experiments away off in the wilderness. He would have to inquire about that. The Doctor, of course, might be a bit off his base, but there was the try-sky speeder and the puffy-jowled man. Where had he seen his face before? Somewhere, he was sure of that. The next morning Ragnar was abroad early in the hills with his gun. Approaching the Doctor’s house he noticed that the speeder was gone. Acting on impulse—he had intended going to the hotel instead and making some long-distance inquiries—he walked to the front entrance and rang the bell. The girl came to the door, looking lovelier than ever.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but father’s still sleeping. He was up most of the night and . . .”
Again acting on impulse, Ragnar said: “Pardon me, Miss Bush, but I didn’t call to see your father; I called to see you.”
“Me?”
“Please don’t be offended. Yesterday you looked as if you’d been crying, and frankly, I didn’t like that fellow who practically ordered me off. Get me straight, Miss Bush; I’m not trying to butt into your affairs out of idle curiosity, but this is a lonely place and if you’re in any trouble. . . .”
Her lips quivered.
“It’s father, Mr. Brown.” She hesitated, and then went on with a rush. “He’s so naive and childish, and Mr. Miller. . . .
“Miller?”
“The man you saw yesterday. He, he . . .” her face flushed scarlet, “he bothers me with his attentions. I detest him. He claims to be a Government agent . . .
“Ah!”
“But I don’t believe it. There’s something queer about him. Once he came here with another fellow and I overheard them talking in a strange language—Martian it sounded like. Why should Government agents be talking in Martian, Mr. Brown?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“I told father, but he only pooh-poohed the whole thing, warned me not to say anything to outsiders. Father is a dear, Mr. Brown, and a great man, but was it necessary for him to come here under an assumed name?”
Ragnar was surprised.
“Isn’t Bush his name?” he asked, quickly.
“No, our name is Lasser. Father is Doctor John Lasser.
The famous Doctor John Lasser! Ragnar whistled softly. Why of course he had heard of him. Who hadn’t? His name was internationally known. And anything Doctor John Lasser might be engaged in doing. . . .
“What is your father working at, Miss Lasser?” he questioned her again, eagerly.
“I do not know. He is secretive about it. But it’s a weapon for warfare.
A weapon for warfare! The Martian language! Things clicked into place in Ragnar’s mind. The great space cruiser, Taurog was making a tour of the solar system at this time, was now on earth. And Miller—the puffy-jowled Miller—he knew now of whom his face reminded him: it reminded him of. . . . With a low cry of excitement he surged to his feet, and in that moment stood transfixed by the drone of an airplane’s engine. A glance through the open door showed him a long, rakish craft circling the grounds, diving for a landing.
“It is they,” cried the girl. “Mr. Miller said he’d be back right away.”
Ragnar grasped her arm tensely.
“I’ve no time to explain, Miss Lasser, but you must trust me. Where can I hide?”
“My bedroom,” faltered the girl. “At the head of the stairs.”
Ragnar took the steps two at a time. If Miller were what he suspected, he would never let him walk away unmolested. The thing to do was to remain concealed and be guided by circumstances. From behind lace curtains he watched the plane make a perfect landing. Four men clambered out. One of them stood beside the aircraft and the other three strode rapidly towards the house. The bulk of Miller was easily identifiable. In a few minutes his husky voice floated up the stairs.
“Damnation!” he stormed in Martian, which Ragnar, having made several trips between the planets, and studied for a time in South Taurog, understood perfectly, “Carry those things carefully.”
Ragnar cursed under his breath. The Doctor’s invention . . . and it must be one well worth while or these people would not be interested in it . . . was being spirited away and himself powerless to intervene.
He saw the Doctor come from his room in a trailing dressing-gown and disappear down the stairs. His high-pitched tones came to Ragnar’s ears.
“Why, Mr. Miller,” he expostulated, “you didn’t say . . . that is, I didn’t realize. . . .”
“Time to be moving,” cried the other unceremoniously. “You’re wanted at Washington, Doctor, where everything will be fixed up with you. If your daughter will get ready . . .
“I’m not going,” said the girl flatly.
The puffy jowls shook with husky laughter.
“Oh, yes you are, my dear, if I have to carry you.”
“Father,” stormed the girl, “are you going to let this man speak to me like that?”
“No, Helen, of course not. You forget yourself Miller. If my daughter doesn’t wish to accompany us . . .
No one heard Ragnar run softly down the steps. He cursed himself for not having understood the situation in time and arranged for assistance. Now he was one man against four armed and remorseless men. But he couldn’t stand by and see harm come to the girl. Already he was thinking of her as something dear and precious. Besides, he would merely be Brown, a harmless neighbor, making a friendly call. That assumption on their part might carry him through, might deter Miller from bothering with the girl.
“Hello,” he said, looking as if he had just entered by the front door, “I rapped, but nobody came. Hope I’m not intruding?”
His fowling-piece pointed forward, negligently covering the man called Miller, whose heavy-lidded green eyes literally shot sparks of fire. A charge of birdshot at such short range, thought Ragnar coldly, would blow a hole through his chest. Even as the thought occurred to him a roar filled the room, not of the fowling-piece but of a heavy automatic pistol. Struck by a thunderbolt he had never a chance to see, Ragnar swayed, buckled at the knees, and pitched forward on his face.
“Got him, Commander,” said a gutteral voice in Martian, as a man stepped from the laboratory doorway with smoking weapon.
There was a moment of stunned silence; then the girl screamed hysterically, “Murderers! murderers! You’ve killed him, you murderers!” and sought to throw herself upon the prone body. But Miller swept her to him with one powerful arm and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“It’s his own fault, the fool! To point at me with a gun like that. My men have their orders.” He kicked the body brutally. “Is he dead, Kira?”
“Shot through the heart, sir. See,” turning Ragnar over and indicating a dark spot on the left breast of his shirt. “I couldn’t miss at that distance, sir.”
“Serves him right,” muttered Miller, “poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted.” And then as the clamor of the horrified Doctor broke on his ear, he shouted, “Silence that fool, someone! Yes, tie him up, gag him! And this wildcat, too! No, leave the body where it is. This is a lonely place. No one will find it for days. And it doesn’t matter if it’s discovered sooner.” He laughed harshly. “Who will ever suspect us? The front door’s locked? Good! Let us go.”
RAGNAR came out of a void of blackness as a man comes out of ether. His head ached dul
ly. There was a sore spot over his heart and when he moved a sharp pain darted through his chest and down his side. It was several moments before he realized what had happened. Shot, by God! he had been shot! He sat up with a groan, feverishly tearing open the bosom of his shirt; then at what he saw, laughed weakly. The metal plaque bearing his number, department symbol and credentials which he wore suspended from a fine chain round the neck and which had worked to one side, was heavily dented, cupped, and wedged in the rough cup was a chunk of lead. But for that metal plaque, it would have lodged in his heart. As it was, an area of chest was black and blue, a rib felt as if it might be broken, and there was the salt taste of blood in his mouth. But luck had saved him from death—the Ragnar luck. He staggered to his feet. The place was, as he had expected, empty. In the kitchen he soaked his aching head with water, found iodine in a cabinet over the sink and painted his bruises, drank a half-pot of cold coffee discovered on the oil-stove, and felt more able to think clearly. There was no time to lose. A glance at his watch showed he had been unconscious nearly an hour. Eleven o’clock. And the Taurog had been scheduled to pass over Tucson at ten. That meant that she had an hour’s start now on her way to Los Angeles, and going like hell, if he knew anything of her commander, with Doctor Lasser and his daughter prisoners on board—and the Doctor’s invention, the real stake for which the dash was being made.
Everything was so plain. Doctor Lasser had offered to perfect his invention for the International War Department of Earth; but the stupid bureaucrats of the Department had ignored his offer and a planted spy had informed the Martian government, which, afraid that the scientist’s patriotism might cause him to reject an offer from an alien planet, had cozened him into believing his own Government had changed its mind and set him to work. The trip of the Taurog was scheduled to coincide with the completion of the Doctor’s labors. No wonder Franz Josef—that head of an expatriate band, that disgruntled ruler had foresworn allegiance to Earth and taken service with the autocratic government of Mars—had refused to be interviewed or seen on the trip of the giant space-cruiser which was bearing him and his men as an embassy of good-will to the various capitals of Earth on behalf of Mars. For months he had been secretly in America, watching the Doctor’s progress, awaiting the moment for the Taurog to come.
