Dawnman Planet up-2

by Mack Reynolds

  Suppose a lot of things.

  He darted his hand into another pocket for a supply of the energy pills, and dashed into the room in which Wyler had invited him earlier in the day. It was unoccupied.

  He headed for the door beyond, through which both Count Fitzjames and Rita had entered. Happily, it was open. He sped down the hall that was there, searching frantically. The living quarters of the Supreme Commandant of Phrygia were laid out in similar fashion—though utterly more swank—to any home of an extremely wealthy individual on a score of planets Ronny had visited. He had little trouble in guessing the layout.

  From time to time, he would pass frozen statues in this dead world. Servants, guards, what were obviously secretaries or clerks, sometimes, if garb meant anything, evidently some high ranking Phrygia official.

  Somewhere along here, Ronny thought, must he some sort of audience chamber, some sort of conference room . It was unlikely that Baron Wyler would be eating at this time of day, and certainly not sleeping. Ronny was gambling on the possibility that Wyler was at work, in conference with underlings, and probably deep in the project for sending the expedition to the Dawnworlds.

  The gamble paid off.

  He came to a large door guarded by two huskies in elaborate uniform, muffle-guns at their sides.

  He wrenched at the doorknob, miscalculated and ripped it completely off.

  Ronny snarled an obscenity, stepped back and flicked his beam gun up again. He repeated the process of cutting a circular hole large enough to pass his body, and then pushed the panel through. When there was space to see, he realized he had found what he sought. The Baron Wyler, standing at a table, a dozen men, mostly uniformed, also about it.

  He pushed harder on the slowly falling panel, finally had the space to squeeze through. The Baron was standing, mouth closed, looking down the arch of his aristocratic nose at one of his subordinates who was speaking, his finger touching a chart. At least, he had been speaking at the moment of the freeze—his mouth was open. And remained so, though no sound issued forth during Ronny’s stay.

  Ronny Bronston darted to the table. He stared down at the paper the other was touching. It was a star chart, but not, he realized, the one that could possibly have helped in the location of the Dawnworlds. It was a chart of United Planets.

  Ronny sorted through the papers on the table, frantically. On the face of it, these men were discussing the broad subject of the Baron’s designs against UP. If so, the subject of the Dawnworlds was obviously in mind.

  But there was no other chart. Plans, reports, graphs, diagrams of this, that and the other. But no further charts.

  He stepped over to the frozen statue that was Baron Wyler and ran his hands over him. He went through every pocket, examined, however briefly, every paper. The other’s body felt like clammy clay, there was a nauseating element in making physical contact with a living object under these conditions.

  There was nothing pertaining to the Dawnworlds.

  For the briefest of moments, he wondered if it were all a hoax. Was the wily Baron planting the idea that he was in contact with this fabulous unintelligent race with the idea of bluffing the UP into accepting him as supreme? But no, the bluff might work with some, but hardly with others. Such planets as Delos were going to have to be shown something tangible before knuckling under to a Baron Maximilian Wyler.

  Ronny Bronston’s eyes began to dart around the room, inspecting the Baron’s underlings. Which, of them all, might be expected to carry a star chart, pinpointing the Dawnman worlds? He simply didn’t have time to search them all. The only one he recognized was the self-effacing Count Fitz-james, who, characteristically, was back away from the others, as though not wishing to intrude.

  He grabbed energy pills from his jacket and munched on them. He had to think. No matter how desperate for time, he had to think.

  He had been in this room already so long that he could note a slight change in the Baron’s eyes. They had begun to widen a merest trifle, the first indication of surprise.

  Then, as though magnet drawn, the Section G agent’s attention whipped back to Count Fitzjames. What was the other doing over there, away from the others? Something hadn’t at first registered on Ronny’s awareness.

  Yes! The oldster was looking at a… a map. No! It was a chart, a star chart. Ronny whipped over. Attached there to the wall.

  Phrygia was heavily marked, down in this corner. Over here, surprisingly near, were the three star systems of the originally discovered tiny aliens. And beyond, all those numberless stars in red! They could only be…

  Whether or not he was right, Ronny had no more time. No more time. He reached out and ripped the chart from the wall. Swore at himself for tearing it badly. Carefully and slowly pulled it down, folding it, so he could carry it more easily.

  He spun and dashed for the door he had blasted through, slowed somewhat by the resistance of the object he carried. He wedged himself into the corridor beyond. The panel he had cut out had not as yet dropped all the way to the floor; in fact, was not more than an inch or so lower than when he had finished shoving it.

  In the corridor, the guards were beginning to react somewhat as had the Baron. Their eyes had begun to widen in shocked surprise.

  He hurried down the hall, retracing his steps. To the elevator. Through the roof of the cage, up the ladder. As he went he desperately swallowed his energy pills, desperately crammed them down.

  The ground floor could be no more than a few stories up, but he felt himself tiring. He was weary with the activity. He had been moving at top speed since Phil had pulled the hovercar up before the entry. And he could feel it now.

  At least, that is what he told himself he was feeling.

  He refused the fear that was welling up inside. How long, how long?

  He pulled himself at last through the hole he had burned in the heavy elevator door at the ground floor. He began to drag himself along the way to the entry, the ramp, Phil’s hovercar and release. The star chart he carried grew increasingly sluggish, impossibly heavy.

  And even as he went, he knew he wasn’t going to make it.

  The energy was draining out of him with every step. He had taken too much time. He had taken far too much time.

  He went down on his knees, the star chart falling slowly from his hands, then remaining suspended in the air. He laboriously took it again. He had to make it to the hovercar. He stumbled forward. It was far too far.

  He was too weak even to bring more pep pills to his mouth. The last few he had taken had had little effect, at any rate. His body had taken all the punishment it was capable of taking. He wasn’t going to make it.

  This, then, was the ultimate failure.

  He looked up in agony, down the long corridor that led in the direction of the ramp. The occupants of the hall were still frozen in their movements. For him, they would always be frozen. But…

  He saw movement!

  Down the hall toward him came running Phil Birdman, his eyes going in all directions.

  He spotted Ronny, grabbed down at him, hoisted him over his shoulder and started back.

  Ronny held on to consciousness. He didn’t understand, but it was going to work out now. He held desperately to the chart.

  They were back in the hovercar. The Indian operative dumped him into the passenger seat, hurried around to the other side and vaulted into the driver’s position. His hand darted to the dash compartment and seized two syrettes. He pressed the first into his own neck, the second into Ronny’s.

  Things began jerking frantically. Things began moving sluggishly. The people. The guards.

  The guard officer, who had been walking toward them when time had first stopped, began moving more naturally, faster, and still faster.

  Scowling, he barked, “What’s going on here?”

  Phil Birdman said apologetically, “Sorry, officer. I seem to have ascended the wrong ramp.”

  “You certainly have! This is the private entry of the Supreme Co
mmandant! What’s going on here? You men look suspicious.”

  The Phrygian stared at Ronny Bronston. “What’ve you got there in your hand? You didn’t have anything just a second ago.”

  It was the star chart.

  Ronny shook his head, weakly. “Nothing. I… I feel sick. Let’s go on back, Birdman.”

  “Yes, get out of here,” the guard officer rapped. He was scowling, obviously wondering whether or not to arrest this pair.

  Phil Birdman had never dropped the lift lever. Now he applied pressure to the velocity pedal, tipped the stick to the left and back, and spun the vehicle to descend the ramp again.

  Ronny fumbled for a sandwich, gobbled it. Got it down and felt like retching. There was a bottle with a score of assorted pills. He got them all down, drank deeply from a flask of water. He was dehydrated, weak, empty.

  They were speeding toward the gate through which they had entered mere moments ago by straight time.

  The gate was closing. The guards were milling about, anxiously. Four or five barred the way, spears raised.

  Spears raised as though they were rifles, and it came to Ronny Bronston that appearances deceive. The Baron Wyler wasn’t about to arm his guards with nothing more effective than iron tipped wooden shafts. Those spears were undoubtedly disguised weapons demanding of considerably more respect.

  “Blast through!” Ronny clipped to his companion. Phil shot a glance at him. “If I do, we’ll have the paleface cavalry after us in moments.”

  “We’ve got them after us already. What d’ya think they’re closing those gates for?”

  The Indian’s hand shot out, flicked a switch. Part of the dash fell away to reveal a pistol grip built into the car. Phil Birdman grabbed it, touched the trigger, slowly swerved the car right and left.

  The gate and the soldiers that guarded it melted away into nothingness.

  The two Section G agents felt nausea. It was seldom one took human life, even in the ultra-dedicated Bureau of Investigation.

  They shot through what had once been the gate and down the road toward the city limits of Phrygia.

  Ronny growled, “They’ll be after us both in the air and on the road. Chances are, we’ll never make it halfway.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Birdman muttered. “Not that that’ll make much difference. You got the location of the Dawnman planets?”

  “I think so.” Ronny wolfed another sandwich. “Listen, how did you ever find me? What was the idea? How could you do it?”

  Birdman grunted. “I pressed my syrette a split second after you did. I was gambling that my metabolism wouldn’t be hit until you had already been gone long enough to do what you could. I figured that you’d probably keep going, long after you’d passed the danger point, if you hadn’t found what we needed. I figured I’d be going into pseudo-time, just in time to come looking for you.”

  He added apologetically, “It was all I could do. Of course, I was in pseudo-time only a fraction of the duration you were. I doubt if it makes more than a year or two difference.”

  “You cloddy!” Ronny growled. “Well, thanks.” He knew well enough Phil would have kept coming, looking for him, no matter how much time had elapsed.

  “All for dear old Section G,” Phil said cheerfully. “Listen, I can hear them behind us. We’ll never make it.”

  “Keep going,” Ronny muttered. “I’m beginning to feel the immediate after-effects.”

  “Oh fine,” the Indian operative said. “You haven’t got a communicator on you?”

  “No, of course not. We couldn’t take the chance of the Baron getting hold of one of us and finding the thing. He’d be able to tap Section G communications.”

  The dash screen let up. There was the face, the icy face of an officer in the uniform of Baron Wyler’s personal guards.

  The officer snarled, “You have exactly two minutes in which to come to a halt and surrender. Otherwise, we blast. You are not going to be allowed to reach Phrygia city limits. The Supreme Commandant’s orders.”

  Ronny flicked the screen off. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “Can you think of anything?”

  “All I can think of,” Phil said expressionlessly, “is that we should have taken my earlier idea. Go down to the recruiting station and join up with the Baron.”

  “Too late now.” Ronny grunted. “We’ve taken our stand. Look out, here comes a car toward us from the city.”

  “Probably a civilian,” the Indian muttered. “There hasn’t been time for security guards to be coming from that direction.”

  “Wait a minute!” Ronny said urgently. “I know that car. Stop.”

  The Indian shot a quick glance at him, but jammed on deceleration.

  Ronny waved at Rita Daniels.

  “Hey!“ he called.

  She came to a halt, her high forehead furrowed.

  “What’re you doing out there?” she asked. “I thought you were in town thinking over Uncle Max’s proposition.”

  He was feeling increasingly weak, but he climbed from Birdman’s hovercar and made his way to hers, fumbling as he went for his gimmicked fountain pen.

  He said, “Look. I want to talk to you. Come along with us.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She could hear the sounds of the pursuing guard vehicles. “Not likely,” she snapped. “What’re you up to?”

  He lifted the stud of the device and turned to call weakly to Birdman. “Get the Baron on the screen. Soonest, damn it!”

  He turned back to the girl. She was scratching her cheek where the tiny dart had struck her, and already her eyes were going blank.

  “Come along with me, Rita,” he ordered. Without bothering to see if she followed, he staggered back to the other hovercar.

  Phil Birdman had managed to get through. Evidently, Baron Wyler had been stationed at a screen waiting for a report from his guards on the progress of the chase. His face was on the screen.

  Ronny Bronston slumped into his seat, the drugged girl climbed in next to him, the slim figure warm but unnoticed against his side.

  He said weakly, “We’ve got your niece, Uncle Max. She’s going with us into Phrygia.”

  The Baron’s face was blazing with anger. “Have you supposed altruists of Section G stooped to abducting helpless women and using them as hostages to protect your miserable selves?”

  “You have said it, friend,” Phil Birdman said flatly. He kicked the acceleration pedal with his foot, switched off the screen again to prevent the other from following their conversation.

  Ronny Bronston had been hanging on to consciousness with considerable effort. Now he gave up.

  XI

  Ronny came to, weakly, in the hideaway the Indian operative had made in the suburban housing area of the Phrygian capital. Evidently, Phil had just given him a draught of something highly stimulating.

  “How’d you ever make it?” Ronny murmured.

  Phil grinned down at him. Bronston was stretched out on a couch. “Ugh. Redman have no trouble shaking pursuing palefaces in confusion of big city traffic.”

  “Funnies, I get,” Ronny muttered. “Where’s the girl?”

  “She’s with us. Our strongman isn’t as strong as he ought to be, if he’s thinking in terms of taking over whole empires of planets. He should have figured her expendable.”

  Ronny said, before passing out again, “Get the Old Man.”

  Phil Birdman went over to the desk and set up the Section G communicator. He said into it, “Irene Kasansky, soonest.”

  Her tight face faded in, her expression worried. “Phil Birdman,” she said, “what’s going on?”

  “Give me the Chief, Irene. Absolutely soonest.”

  “He and Jakes are waiting for your report.”

  Metaxa’s acid sour face faded in. “Birdman!” he growled. “What’s happened to Ronny Bronston?”

  The Indian said, “I’ve got him here. He’s out.” He had an edge of bitterness in his voice now. “He took your orders literally, of course. The only way
of getting that information was for him to go into pseudo-time.”

  Ross Metaxa stared at him, unblinkingly. “How long was he under?”

  “Evidently maximum. He probably set some sort of record.”

  The Section G head allowed himself to close his eyes for the briefest of seconds. He took a deep breath and said, “Did he get the information from that funker?”

  “I think so. He brought a star chart away with him.” Phil Birdman cleared his throat. “We also have a hostage. The Baron’s niece.”

  Ross Metaxa assimilated that, not bothering to ask for details. He said, finally, “Have you any manner of getting out into space?”

  Birdman hesitated. “UP has a small craft assigned to it. But if we utilize that, I have no doubt that the Baron will lower the boom on all UP personnel, the moment we’re gone. He’s got a reputation for ruthlessness, when he gets excited about something.”

  Metaxa shook his head. “They’ll have to take their chances. You and Ronny and the girl get yourselves out. There’s a Space Forces cruiser heading at top speed for you. They’ll be there in five days, Earth time.”

  “Then what do we do?” Birdman said, though he could see it coming. “Return Ronny to Earth for whatever treatment he can get?”

  Ross Metaxa looked at him bleakly. “The Baron is going to head immediately for those Dawnworlds. You take off after him. In a week’s time, Bronston will have recovered.”

  The Indian said flatly, “Ronny Bronston will never recover, as you well know, Commissioner. He’s lost at least twenty years in that jazzed up phoney-time he went into. Five years from now, he’ll look and be twenty-five years older than he is today.”

  Metaxa said evenly, “He knew what he was doing, Birdman. He did what he had to do. He wouldn’t have been Ronald Bronston otherwise. He’ll recover within a week. As you know, the age doesn’t come immediately, but over a period of time. For awhile, it won’t effect him. When he has recovered, give him the story and make your way immediately after the Baron.”