by Don Wilcox
“Whether it’s friend or foe,” said Allison, his face tensed for decision, “we’re ten against the universe now. These caverns are ours to protect. We’ve no defenses but our wits and a few guns.”
“Four,” said Smitt. “Only four guns.”
“One apiece for each of you men,” Allison directed.
He hastily outlined a plan. The men would take positions along the upper cliff paths near the ceilings and listen closely. If the newcomers were friendly, Allison would give them a cordial welcome. If they were hostile, he would stage a bluff.
“But if worst comes to worst, fire your guns as if there were hundreds of you, not just four.”
June and the other girls had already snapped off the lights through the laboratory corridors, for a glimpse of these immense metal works would be certain temptation to any invader.
“And we’ll lock all the rooms,” June volunteered, “and hide the blueprints—”
“And hide yourselves,” Allison commanded. “If they’re looking for treasures and get a glimpse of you—”
He broke off quickly, kissed June intensely—a kiss that would be long remembered—and with a hastily uttered, “Weddings later!” he went forth.
The ship’s airlocks had not yet opened. Oxygen-masked figures looked out curiously from the portholes, doubtlessly wondering whether human life would be found here.
Slipping through the deep shadows, Allison stationed his four men along the cliff paths, then scampered down into a chasm that opened upon the space ship runway. With a purposeful air he walked into view over the red metal footbridge. In his hand he swung a long black metal ax casually.
Halfway across the bridge he stopped.
S-20!
Allison’s eyes narrowed. The ship’s nose was pointed back toward the takeoff channel through which it had descended. This couldn’t be an Earth ship. The earth had built nothing but experimental ships which were little better than death traps. And yet the name that adorned that nose was composed of an English letter and an Arabic numeral!
A man emerged from the airlocks, took a few steps toward Allison, stopped abruptly, removed his oxygen helmet, and spoke—in English!
“What’s going on down here?” the stranger drawled.
“So you’re from the earth too,” said Allison in a cordial tone.
“Don’t insult me,” the man answered with a touch of cynicism.
He opened his oxygen suit down from the throat and fished a cigarette from an inside pocket. The cigarette was slender and orange-colored, and when he tapped it against his hand it lit.
“I assume you’ve been around some,” said Allison, noting the man’s easy adjustment to the light gravity of Mercury. “What’s your purpose here?”
“You might call it a good-will tour,” the stranger answered with a slight twist of his lips.
He didn’t offer Allison a cigarette, but brushed past as if to ignore him. He glanced back as if noticing for the first time that the garments Allison wore were of fine metal mesh. Then he strode over toward the red footbridge, eying the rows of torchlights that trailed along the pathways into distant chasms.
He spent several minutes gazing through field glasses. No other people were to be seen. Again he turned his attention to things near at hand. He studied the well-worn paths and scarred walls. He rubbed his stubby hand over the silky red metal of the bridge. He looked at the scraps of metal on the ground, the black ax in Allison’s hands, noted Allison’s calm patient gaze.
“You must be lost,” said the man, planting his stubby greenish hands on his hips. “Any more down here like you?”
“A few million,” said Allison, allowing himself a healthy exaggeration as a precautionary measure. The stranger’s manner hardly inspired trust.
“What are you? Traffic cop or somethin’ ?”
“If it’s a good-will tour, I’m the reception committee,” said Allison. “Ever hear of an old Earth custom of shaking hands?”
“Earth customs is out” said the man, walking back toward his ship. His speech was thick, reminding Allison of tough-guy talk. The man glanced back.
“How many million did you say?”
“Several.”
During the next few minutes seventy or eighty uniformed men emerged from the ship. They milled around, unencumbered by space suits or helmets, breathing and stretching. An officer called them to order, and the scout with whom Allison had exchanged words mumbled something to them.
Then a third of the men got back into the ship, the rest followed close on the heels of the six officers who strode toward the footbridge.
“Stop!” Allison shouted. “You can’t pass this bridge without a permit!”
They came on. They fell into military step and their thudding black boots set up a rhythmic echo. Their uniforms, now that their brown space suits had been removed, were a flashy silver with orange sashes and turban-shaped orange headdress. Modern pirates, thought Allison. Sashes, hats and pistol holsters bore the letter “S”.
“Stop! I’ll brain the first man who crosses this bridge!”
Allison shouted his threat at the top of his voice. He drew back to the farther end of the footbridge, swung his ax up for action and waited. The officers drew pistols and came on.
But the first boot that touched the bridge brought a hailstorm. Zing-zing-zing! Bullets clanged across the center of the span. Automatic guns chattered from somewhere in the upper shadows. The officers leaped back in surprise, and Allison silently prayed that Smitt and the other three men could keep up the illusion of a barrage, if necessary.
“Hold it!” the tall leader shouted, his hands jerking upward. “What the hell is this?”
The fifty orange and silver uniforms shrank back into a disorganized swarm. The low rumble of the defenders’ unseen guns echoed away.
The officers went into a huddle with the scout and there was some rapid, quarrelsome talk. What about this self-confident fellow—was he really from Earth? What if he weren’t crack-brained? Maybe there were a few millions of people down here. And maybe black axes weren’t their only weapons. They had guns at least. Maybe they had explosives planted under this space ship landing . . . S-s-ssh!
The swarm crowded back toward the ship and the conference went on for several minutes. Allison could hear little of what was said. The name “Sasho” recurred frequently throughout the conversation. Frequently the visitors’ eyes roved speculatively toward Allison and toward the endless shadows that might conceal gunmen.
Gradually their attention shifted to some objects the officers had picked up off the ground. They crowded over the objects, pounded them together, scratched them with knives, scorched them with flame pistols. Allison saw that the objects were scraps of metal—specimens of red and black.
The timely gunfire and the fine metals must have made an impression. The leader of the group, a tall, suave-looking fellow, now came toward Allison with a great show of respect.
“We beg your pardon if we seemed—er—hasty.” His manner was in extreme contrast to that of the first spokesman. “We’re a good-will party from Venus.”
Allison responded cautiously. The change of demeanor made him more suspicious than ever. He held fast to his bluff.
“This bridge is heavily guarded,” said Allison. “I’ve had orders from the dictator to let no one through.”
“Dictator, eh? What is he? An Earthman or something else?”
“He’s like me,” Allison answered noncommittally.
“Whatever he is, he’s the man I want to see. Where can I find him?”
“You can’t. Martial law is on,” Allison declared.
“Hell!” The leader’s polite manners were already wearing thin. “How can I get a message through to him?” he snapped.
“I’m his official spokesman. I’ll handle your business,” Allison purred.
“My business is diplomatic—and secret!”
“I’m a diplomatic spokesman,” Allison lied, “authorized to handle
secret business. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Have you got any documents to prove that?”
In answer Allison jerked his thumb into the air and a volley of bullets clattered against the nearby wall.
The leader shuffled nervously. “See here, I’ve come to get some promises from your big shot, whoever he is—”
“He makes no promises,” Allison interrupted bluntly.
“Suppose the earth was about to be pounced on by some other planet. Which way would your dictator and his millions take a notion to jump? For or against?” the tall leader demanded.
“Neither,” said Allison staunchly. “We tend to our own business.”
The leader was pleased with the answer. He glanced at his group. Allison had the uncomfortable feeling that those restless uniforms were gradually gathering closer to him.
The leader engaged him with more questions.
“You know all about this place, do you? How many people there are? How many men under arms? What kind of weapons? What the people do for a living? What the birth rate is? How the government operates?”
Allison nodded. Naturally he knew the answers.
The leader held up a scrap of metal.
“You know how this stuff is made?”
“It’s rather complicated—”
“But you know?”
“What do you think?”
All at once it happened—so swiftly that the guns up in the shadows couldn’t prevent it. The uniformed men flooded in on Allison and swept him across to their space ship. They forced him into the airlocks, and a moment later the big silvery invader went into action.
CHAPTER II
Double Trouble
June O’Neil couldn’t believe it. Watching from the laboratory window she saw it begin.
Dread filled her heart. Across the open space toward the runway she ran, crying to Allison. She fell. She lay face down, her head half lifted. The torchlights before her were only dull blurs. The reality of the passing scene burned into her horrified mind as if it were being stamped with hot brands.
They had Lester Allison! The guns from the shadows didn’t stop them. They carried him away at all costs. Bullets cut into the edge of the retreating invaders and men fell. But the plan went through. They had him!
Bullets blasted harmlessly against one side of the ship while it maneuvered about to facilitate a safe pick-up of the fallen bodies. The job was done, and slowly the silvery monster crept back toward the runway.
Now a familiar roar sounded. It was the empty robot ship. June came up on her fingers tensely. The robot ship was returning, after having taken the kidnapped slaves back to earth and freedom.
Down the runway it rolled, headed squarely for the big silver-nosed stranger. On it coasted—within thirty yards—
BLAM! Boom-brroommmm!
The big gun on the nose of the fighting ship blazed forth. The shell caught the black robot ship to one side of center. The black hull leaped.
It bounded from its course and rolled like a log into the precipitous ravine beneath the red bridge.
Out of the silvery monster rocket motors flashed fire. The big fighting ship shot up through the runway out of sight. Moments later its roar died away.
Allison’s four aids, who had scurried down from the cliff paths, their automatic guns in full action, now trudged back from the mouth of the runway. Futile gesture—to pump bullets at a departing space boat! They were shocked past reason—shocked at their own helplessness. The silvery ship was gone!
They stopped and looked about. Nothing remained of the visit but some bits of bright uniform and a few pools of dark blood. And a few yards beyond—June O’Neil lying face down, her head in her arms. And the other girls back of her, white and trembling.
June hardly knew when the girls picked her up and helped her to a bed. The hours that followed were next to unendurable for everyone.
Nobody spoke of the weddings. There was no talk of the new civilization that had aroused so much enthusiasm a few hours before. Without Lester Allison, the nine of them were spokes of a wheel without a hub—or planets without a sun.
In time the men went to work on the returned robot ship. The heavy hull was wedged fast in the ravine. It was a small job, however, to turn out a power derrick from the metal works to lift it. A gleam of hope came up with the salvaged space vessel.
“Once we get this thing repaired,” said Smitt, “we’ll hike out after Allison and bring him back.”
“Some capital city on Venus—that’s where they took him,” said Laughlin, one of the best scrappers in the bunch. His sharp ears had caught everything.
The robot ship groaned and came out of its trap, and the men engineered it into the fine laboratory Jason Kilhide had unwillingly left them and converted the big shop into a space ship hospital.
“Tell June not to grieve any more,” Smitt kept saying to Mary, even managing to grin a little. We’ll have him back before many days.”
But Mary knew that June O’Neil’s shock was too deep to be relieved by any spurious hopes.
The robot ship was badly damaged. The hull had suffered little, for Mercury metals were tough. But the instruments had been crippled. Intricate robot controls, governed by keys set in the laboratory, were more than the men could understand. The girls searched through the laboratory files, high and low, for explanatory diagrams, but without success.
The men experimented until they went gray with exhaustion. The sharp-faced, boyish Laughlin penetrated the mysteries farther than anyone. But he saw that it would take months for even him to conquer the problem.
At last they were forced to accept the bitter fact. The robot ship was dead. The four men and five women were here for better or for worse. And their guiding spirit, Lester Allison, was gone—to an unknown destination.
Aboard the S-20, Allison shot through the starry blackness toward Venus.
If rocket motors could be stopped by a man’s inward rebellion, the S-20 would have gone dead before it budged from the Red Suburb of Mercury. But Allison’s anguish was a powerless thing. He was the victim of something hostile and vicious. It was up to him to face reality.
Why had they taken him prisoner? He didn’t know.
Not until after the hubbub over the fifteen dead or wounded men had calmed down did the Venusians pay much attention to him. They had him in their toils, and that seemed to be as much as they cared about for the present.
Left to his own devices, Allison made himself comfortable on a bench in the fore end of the ship. He pretended to be absorbed in the heavens. Actually he kept his eyes on the pilots, studied their dials, memorized their manipulations.
A transparent partition separated Allison from the men at the controls, but once the door was left open, and he could hear them discussing whether they should swing around past the earth. The officers pressed the suggestion upon them. They had plenty of time, since their Mercury job had been dispensed with so swiftly.
So the S-20 swung past the earth.
The very sight of Allison’s home planet uncorked a great deal of talk that might be called sentimental. The sentiment was—pure hatred. Hatred of the earth seemed to be bred into these men. And yet Allison couldn’t get over the notion that they were Earth men.
Their skin, he noticed, carried a grayish pigment—almost green; but this could have been a peculiarity induced by the climatic conditions of Venus, perhaps. Still, there were other physical oddities: the noses were inclined to be flat, and the hands short and stubby. But the talk was definitely right out of America—in fact, it might have been borrowed wholesale from a den of American gangsters. To hear them cursing the earth in the most colorful of Earth slang was incongruous enough. But when they began recounting some of their experiences on Earth, it was more than Allison could fathom for the moment.
He gathered that each of these men had made a trip to the earth at some time or other, although, the earth had been innocent of the fact that their ships had landed. Each man ha
d gone there to commit murders or other crimes as a part of their initiation into the service of what they described as the “Sasho Empire.” They bragged of their crimes.
Allison wasn’t sure what it was all about. His chief business was to observe how the pilot steered the ship.
Presently the big pearly white ball that was the earth inflated before them until it filled a fourth of the sky. The men busied themselves with telescopes trying to discern some sort of fresh scar. Allison gathered that they or their brothers under the Sasho banner had something to do with the formation of the scar they were looking for—a line of black on the North American continent.
There was much talk about Sasho’s Empire, Sasho’s other ships, Sasho’s plan of destruction. But no scar was seen. Thick atmosphere and continents of clouds made it impossible to see anything. So the S-20 pulled away straight for Venus.
Now the officers began to stew about what they would report to Sasho.
They argued over what they had seen on Mercury, and when they boiled it down they hadn’t seen anything. They had plenty of “evidence,” they said, that a population of “several million Earth people”—American offshoots, apparently—lived there!
They began to make excuses to each other for not actually invading the place.
But the tall flat-nosed leader with the gold “S” medallion on his chest said what the hell, there wouldn’t have been any point in sacrificing any more life. They had picked up an official spokesman who was A-1. Did Sasho expect them to capture the confounded dictator of the planet himself? They’d lost enough men as it was.
Allison chuckled to himself at this point. They’d swallowed his “dictator” yarn, hook, line and sinker!
The officers argued some more, and ate, and smoked orange-colored cigarettes—and agreed that they’d better cook up a story that would sound good to Sasho, and do it right now!
Thereupon Yawman, the tall leader, called Lester Allison to the conference table and the other officers gathered around. There were microphones to pick up all the talk, and amplifiers, so that everyone aboard would know what was decided on.
