by Earl
When the noise of running feet died away beyond the door, the men in the little control room ceased stamping their feet and slapping their arms, and grinned at one another.
“It worked,” chuckled Manners. Then he became serious.
“Now you’ve got your chance! Go to your ship—fly away in the dark—I’ll turn out every light in the station—but hurry because they’ll throw some searchlights clown here when they get high enough. Before they do that you can take-off in all the confusion and quietly slip away. When they come to investigate, I’ll tell them I saved the station just in time and that you criminals escaped—how or where, I won’t say. Hurry; go!”
As they left the room, cautiously peering down the corridor in case any of the police had called the bluff, there came the roar of the police ships taking-off.
“No worry about them,” cried Williams. “They’re intent on saving their own precious necks.”
Just as they reached the flat roof, every light went out; Manners had been true to his word and had timed it exactly right. Under cover of darkness, they ran to their ship, safe in the knowledge that the police would not know till too late that their prey had escaped by a ruse.
Hackworth, in the lead, jumped in. He waited impatiently for the others to join him, but to his surprise, he heard Williams’ voice.
“Start the motors, Earl, and go! Get away from here as fast as you can, and head for home—and safety.”
“What?” spluttered Hackworth. “And you. . . . and Terry?”
“We’ll take care of ourselves. You go—no one as yet knows you’re connected with this. Besides, even if we went with you, sooner or later we’d have to separate. As outlaws, we’ve got to escape Unitaria, and we can do that without you.”
“But, Dan—”
“Go, if only for Lila’s sake! And hurry, Hackworth! Any moment the air-police will smell a rat and put a searchlight down here!”
l Overwhelmed by these arguments, Hackworth shouted a “goodbye,” roared the motors to life, and took the ship up and away. To him it seemed a madman’s move; but to have argued with his strong-headed cousin would have been futile. Hardly had he drawn safely away from the tide-station than hovering police ships, already suspicious that the threatened catastrophe had not occurred, cast their light beams downward. They revealed a deserted landing roof. The beams began to swing about frantically, but Hackworth was already beyond their effective range. He at least had escaped from this night’s hectic mixup with the Unidum police. But how would his friends fare?
By the time the police had recovered their courage and swung searchlights on the roof-top, Williams, Terry, and M’bopo were again in the control room, facing a startled man. Manners threw his flashlight beam to each of their faces.
“The Devil take you!” he cried. “Why are you back? You will get me in trouble now if the police find me with you.”
“I’ve changed my plans,” said Williams calmly. “Staying with Hackworth would have been dangerous, not only for us, but for him.”
“Good Lord!” cried Manners shrilly, “You don’t think about me at all! I helped you all I could, stalled off the police at great personal risk, and now you want me to hide you, with the constant fear of—”
“We’re not going to stay, Manners,” cut in Williams sharply. “Listen to me: I’ve heard that Iceland is an independent island where fugitives from the Unidum can safely hide. To stay in Unitaria any longer is dangerous for Terry and myself. If we can get to Iceland from here . . .
“This is just the worst place to be for that,” cried Manners. “You can’t get aboard any type of transportation from this tide-station. The nearest dock is at Long Island City.”
“But you have planes here, don’t you? Your employees—”
Whatever Williams had in mind was never uttered, for the sudden harsh drone of laboring engines outside informed them that the police had returned.
Manners stared at them in speechless misery. They would all be caught together; there could be no second ruse for the police would be wiser from the first one.
“Come on, Terry,” called Williams, racing to the door. “I see now it was a mistake not going with Hackworth. But still we can give the police a run-around.”
They became reckless then, intent only on delaying capture as long as possible. It was senseless to think of going to the landing roof; already they could hear the murmurs and footsteps of approaching Unidum guards. Williams dashed down a corridor that led oceanward, away from the control-room, Terry and M’bopo at his heels. There were shouts behind them. The corridor opened into a long and curving chamber from the opposite wall off which led straight passageways.
“This way,” said Terry suddenly, running down the hall. “There’s a possible chance—”
At one of the long passageways whose end seemed lost in distance as though it stretched onward forever, he stopped and pointed at what seemed a miniature train.
“This is the tide-station’s transportation system—propelled like an electrocar—with which workmen go to the different parts of these long tide-power piers, which are sometimes five miles long! I can run it—just one lever to start and stop it.”
“Where does it lead to?”
“Well—nowhere. Out into the ocean.” Terry shrugged. Everything was now purposeless; there was no escape—only delay.
“Come on,” said Williams in sudden decision. “We’ll take a ride in it. Perhaps somewhere we can hide along that five-mile stretch and . . .
There was nothing more to say. Anything they did now was aimless. There could be but one ending to the whole affair—eventual capture. They were merely fleeing because it was against their nature to surrender their persons meekly.
Terry pulled the lever savagely when they were all seated in the vehicle. With but a faint hum of magnetic motors, it started, gathering speed swiftly, almost noiseless on its rubber-covered wheels. But the enormously-long cavern became resonant with the echoes that rolled back from the farther end.
The train ran on a ledge fastened to one wall of the tide-pier; not twenty feet below was the surface of the ocean, swelling toward high tide, creeping upward inch by inch. At high tide tremendous shutters would clip across the tide-pier dozens of feet down. The receding ocean level would then leave a titanic mass of water captured in man-made reservoirs, possessing terrific potential energy. How the weight of falling water was converted into kinetic energy, Williams could not see, nor did he care at the time. His mind was seething with plans and plans—how to get out of this predicament. He had let one good chance slip by—refusing to go with Hackworth; would another chance somehow present itself?
When the vehicle came to a stop before the end of the tide-pier, which was set with windows, they looked at one another in dismay. Down the long hallway came the sound of another train.
“The police,” said Terry emotionlessly, “are right on our heels. I suppose Manners, to save his own reputation, had to give us away.”
He became suddenly vehement, eyes flashing. “We’re trapped, Williams! We’ve got a choice of two things: capture and the Brain-control death, or—”
He pointed to the still, black water on the other side of the ledge-railing. It would be a quick and merciful death; at least preferable to. . . . he shuddered. Their brains! Their dead brains. . . . they would fish out the bodies and take out the brain organs and. . . .
“Don’t you see?” screamed Terry suddenly. “Even that way, the Unidum will carry out its sentence. . . . Brain-controls!. . . . there is no escape. There was no escape from the beginning! Williams, we—”
Terry felt a hand shaking him by the shoulder, a strong hand. There was a voice too, an imperative voice, asking him something. The agonizing grip of terror loosened the young chemist’s mind and he heard.
“Terry! What are those lights out there beyond the tide-pier?”
“Lights?” Terry looked. “Moored seaplanes—private craft mainly.”
“Terry, can you swim t
hat far?”
“Whether I can or not, I’ll try it,” answered Terry, thinking of the oncoming police.
In a flash they were imbued with new courage. The black of despair had turned to a gray dawn of hope. They stripped to the skin and threw the clothes over the railing into the water. M’bopo went first through an opened window. Terry poised a moment before diving, shivering. Before Williams joined them, he looked down the passageway. He smiled in satisfaction; the police were still too far away to be distinguished in the gloom, and conversely, they could not have seen what their quarry had done. He closed the window hanging by tooth and nail on the sill; let them think the prisoners had drowned themselves inside. Then he dove downward.
He came up gasping in the cold water. Calling softly to his companions, he struck out for the brightest of the lights which danced on the choppy water far out in the gloom.
“Take it easy,” warned Williams. “Conserve your strength. It looks like a long swim.”
Terry gasped a reply and changed to a smooth side-stroke. Williams drew back of him and uttered a few dialect phrases to M’bopo. The black man, gliding along easily, obediently crawled to the side of the young chemist and let him set the pace. That this would be a test of stamina, Williams knew. And that Terry would be the first to weaken, he knew also. As for himself and M’bopo, their tireless bodies, jungle-trained, would stand terrific punishment.
Hand over hand, breath after breath, they fought the ocean with its shoreward tow and chilling bite. Choppy waves seemed spitefully intent on choking them and pushing them under. It was an ordeal to test any man of strength. And the bobbing lights ahead seemed to dance ever farther away.
It might have been an hour later—or a year, for all they knew—that Terry spluttered violently and stopped.
“I can’t go on!” he gasped between clenched teeth and blue lips. “Goodbye. . . . I’m done. Maybe you can. . . . make it. . . .”
As though it were a signal, Williams and M’bopo swam to either side of him.
“Here, Terry. . . . one hand on each. . . . of our shoulders. Look, we’re almost there!”
Terry wondered if it could be true; he had not the strength to raise his head and look. He held on to their shoulders grimly, incredulous that they still had the spirit to go on when he was completely fagged. Under his aching fingers he could feel the rippling of powerful shoulder muscles. Could they go on much longer?
CHAPTER X
A Chance Friend
l Ages later Terry felt a change in the motion of the swimmers at his side. A voice that seemed miles away spoke.
“Sarto!” gasped Williams. “We’ve reached something.”
The words startled Terry. He had forgotten that they had been swimming to a destination. He shook off his numbed lethargy and raised eyes that smarted from the salt water.
“The sea-plane dock,” he mumbled as clearly as he could. “Climb up. . . . and rest.” Even as he said it, he wondered how it would be accomplished, for the floating dock’s level was three feet above. He heard splashing and saw M’bopo leaping out of the water with frightful contortions in the attempt to catch the dock edge. Finally he made it. With a spasmodic jerk that must have taken super-human effort, he pulled himself up and rolled over onto the dock.
In another moment, with the help of M’bopo reaching down, the two white men rolled onto the wooden surface. For five long minutes only stertorous breathing and spasmodic shivers occupied them as they lay flat, regaining their sadly taxed energy.
The dock they were on was in reality a giant raft, anchored securely. Cut into its edges were spaces long and broad enough to admit the pontoons of sea-craft. It was a public service for those who owned sea-planes and wished to moor them temporarily. Each of them twinkled with red lights at the wing tips.
Williams was the first to stagger erect. He pulled Terry to his feet and made him jump around violently to circulate sluggish blood. M’bopo joined them. The exercise helped greatly to revive them, even though the cool night breeze now threatened to freeze them by the process of evaporation.
“Let’s go,” said Williams, controlling chattering teeth with great effort. “Must get a ship. . . . invade it. . . . fight for it. M’bopo—” He finished with dialect that brought a gleam to the black man’s eyes.
In the deep gloom that lay over the entire floating dock, they made their way toward a tri-motored craft a hundred yards away.
As they walked, Terry licked stiffened lips and worked tightened jaws.
“Williams, listen to me,” he finally said. “They’re moored with two ropes from pontoon-stays to dock-posts. Must loosen them.”
Williams nodded. “But first we storm the cabin.”
He cursed when they reached the first plane. Its cabin was dark and the doors locked. They went to the next and it too was empty and locked. At the third there was a light from inside and the sound of many voices.
M’bopo looked inquiringly at his master, but the latter shook his head. A dozen or so men were more than they could handle.
The fourth was a small ship, twin-motored.
“Here we go,” said Williams. “I’d rather fight than freeze.”
He jerked open the cabin door and plunged in. Terry, crowding in after M’bopo, expected to hear shouts and cries, but all he heard was a muffled gasp and a crack of fist on flesh. Then he saw Williams’ face grinning back at him.
“Only one man,” he said. “And I took care of him. Now to warm up.”
The cabin, comfortably heated, seemed like bliss after the freezing they had undergone. For a long while, they all relaxed in wordless ecstasy. Crumpled on the floor was a man whose upturned face still had a look of stunned surprise on it.
The warmth gradually soaked through their blue skins and loosened their tongues.
“You can fly this?” asked Williams.
“I think so. Controls look very similar to land-craft.”
“We must go as soon as possible. Unitaria is no place for us at present. I know—” Williams added at the frown on Terry’s face—“that you are thinking of Lila and hate to leave for that reason. But we would be courting capture around here. We can hide safely in Iceland. As for what to do about Lila: first we must wait till we hear from Andrew Grant. If he can’t get her release, we’re going to do our best to get Lila spirited away to Iceland. That was why I wanted Hackworth to get away, so that he can plan on that. So far all has gone well enough—”
He stopped short at a sudden sound of laboring airplane motors, which he knew only too well meant a ship landing. Terry, peering out on the long stretch of dock, turned with dismay in his face.
“A police ship!”
Williams sprang to look and saw a striped ship bouncing to a stop near a housing whose windows shone with interior lights. Five uniformed figures leaped from the cabin of the plane and banged on the door of the housing. The lone attendant of the seaplane mooring came out and they engaged in gesticulating conversation.
“Then the police are not so simple,” muttered Williams half to himself. “They have come here on the chance that we did attempt this swim and succeeded.”
“We should have suspected they would,” said Terry. “The Unidum guards are noted for their efficiency. I wonder just what they’ll do.”
Williams was staring out to see. He saw the police leave the vicinity of the housing and head rapidly for the first of the moored craft, followed by the attendant. They disappeared in the shadows of the ship but emerged a moment later to walk toward the next plane.
“Damn!” breathed Terry who had watched this over his companion’s shoulder. “They’re looking in each ship. They’ll find us! We’ve got to hide!”
“No use,” said Williams quickly. “Not enough time. And no place that I can see, anyway.”
“The rear supply hold—but no! It won’t hold all of us. Williams, we’ve got to do something—”
“And we will do something! Terry start up the motors. Be ready for instant take-off.
M’bopo and I will loose the moor-ropes.”
“But man! They’ll hear the engine noise and dash over. With their lightning pistols, you two don’t stand a chance—”
“Got to fight for it, Terry. Only hope left. You start the motors and leave the rest to us. If you hear me shout, give her the gun.” He shot clipped Bantu phrases to the black man in the same staccato voice.
Terry opened his mouth to remonstrate, but they were gone. For a moment, he thought of leaping out to help them, then decided to follow Williams’ instructions. Williams had seemed to have a peculiar knack for thinking of workable plans on the spur of the moment; perhaps again luck would be with them. Terry grasped the starter switch and closed it. With a coughing roar, the twin motors hurled their powerful voice across the water.
Even before Terry had done this, Williams and M’bopo had unhooked the mooring ropes from the pontoons. At the former’s low-voiced command, the black man raced around the back of the ship to where his master was, and together they crouched in the deep shadow of the plane’s one wing, nearest the group of police. They waited, eyes on the uniformed guards, like panthers at a zebra watering spa. For a moment, Williams was transported back in time twenty years when he and a brawny black had ambushed a party of marauders under the shadow of a huge tree and fallen upon their backs with such fury as to completely rout them.
At the unexpected roar of the motors, the police had whirled in surprise, lightning-pistols in hand. At a shout from their leader, they sprang forward, intent on capturing the outlaws before the motors were sufficiently warmed to start. They saw nothing as they raced past one wing to get at the cabin door. The first thing they knew, two naked figures, one white and one black, had leaped among them, hard fists flying.
The onslaught laid two of the guards flat and senseless. The other three flung about with pistols upraised to meet a storm of blows. One pistol flashed harmlessly into the night air; and user crashed against the wing a second later. His last impression was the shuddery one of a demoniacal black face leering at him. The remaining, two guards, knocked off their feet, bounced up again. But neither was armed; the weapons had flown out of their hands. Skilled in boxing, they held their own against the attackers. Williams and M’bopo began to take jolting punishment. Out of the corner of his eye, Williams saw the attendant, who had been hanging back, run and stoop for one of the dropped lightning-pistols. If he should get it and. . . .
