Lucky Starr And The Big Sun Of Mercury ls-4

by Isaac Asimov

  "What answer do you expect?"

  "I'll know when I find it."

  "Okay," said Bigman. "I'm sold, Lucky. On our way. Let's go."

  "Hold on, there," cried Lucky in honest perturbation. "Great Galaxy, boy! I said I'm going. There's only one inso-suit. You'll stay here."

  For the first time, the significance of the pronouns Lucky had used sank into Bigman's consciousness. Lucky had said "I," "I." Not once had he said "we." And yet Bigman, with the easy confidence of long association, had assumed that "I" meant "we."

  "Lucky!" he cried, torn between outrage and dismay. "Why do I have to stay?"

  "Because I want the men at the Dome to be sure that we're here. You keep the chart and follow the route we talked about or something like it. Report back to Cook every hour. Tell them where you are, what you see, tell the truth; you don't have to make anything up-except that you say I'm with you."

  Bigman considered that. "Well, what if they want to talk to you?"

  "Tell them I'm busy. Yell that you think you've just seen a Sirian. Say you've got to cut off. Make up something, but keep them thinking I'm here. See?"

  "All right. Sands of Mars, you'll go to Sun-side and have all the fun, and I'll just wander around in the dark playing games on the suit radio."

  "Cheer up, Bigman, there may be something in the mines. I'm not always right."

  "I'll bet you are this time. There's nothing down here."

  Lucky couldn't resist a joke. "There's the freezing death Cook spoke about. You could investigate that."

  Bigman didn't see the humor. He said, "Aw, shut up."

  There was a short pause. Then Lucky placed his hand on the other's shoulder. "All right, that wasn't funny, Bigman, and I'm sorry. Now cheer up, really. We'll be together again in no time. You know that."

  Bigman pushed Lucky's arm to one side. "All right. Drop the soft soap. You say I've got to do it, so I'll do it. Only you'll probably get sunstroke without me there keeping an eye on you, you big ox."

  Lucky laughed. "I'll try to be careful." He turned down tunnel 7a but had not taken two steps when Bigman called out.

  "Lucky!"

  Lucky stopped. "What?"

  Bigman cleared his throat. "Listen. Don't take stupid chances, will you? I mean, I'm not going to be around to drag you out of trouble."

  Lucky said, "Now you sound like Uncle Hector. Suppose you take some of your own advice, eh?"

  It was as close as they ever got to expressing their real affection for one another. Lucky waved his hand and stood glimmering for a moment in Bigman's suit-light. Then he turned and went off.

  Bigman looked after him, following his figure as it gradually melted into the surrounding shadows until it turned about a curve in the tunnel and was lost to him.

  He felt the silence, and the loneliness doubled. If he had not been John Bigman Jones, he might have weakened with the sense of loss, been overwhelmed at finding himself alone.

  But he was John Bigman Jones, and he set his jaw and clamped his teeth and marched farther down the main shaft with unshaken tread.

  Bigman made his first call to the Dome fifteen minutes later. He was miserable.

  How could he have believed that Lucky seriously expected adventure in the mines? Would Lucky have arranged to make radio calls for the Sirians to pick up and keep tabs on?

  Sure, it was a tight beam, but the messages weren't scrambled, and no beam was so tight that it couldn't be tapped with patience.

  He wondered why Cook allowed such an arrangement, and almost at once the thought occurred to him that Cook disbelieved in the Sirians too. Only Bigman had believed. Big-brain!

  At the moment, he could have chewed through a spaceship hull.

  He gathered in Cook and used the agreed-upon signal for all clear.

  Cook's voice at once shot back. "All clear?"

  "Sands of Mars! Yes. Lucky's up ahead twenty feet, but there's no sign of anything. Look, if I've buzzed all clear, take my word for it next time."

  "Let me talk to Lucky Starr."

  "What for?" Bigman kept it casual with an effort. "Get him next time."

  Cook hesitated, then said, "All right."

  Bigman nodded to, himself grimly. There'd be no next tune. He'd buzz all clear and that would be all… Only how long was he supposed to wander about in the darkness before he heard from Lucky? An hour? Two? Six? Suppose six hours went by and there was no word? How long should he stay? How long could he stay?

  And what if Cook demanded specific information? Lucky had said to describe things, but what if Bigman accidentally failed to keep up the act? What if he tipped the boat and let slip the fact that Lucky had gone into the Sun-side? Lucky would never trust him again! With anything!

  He put the thought aside. It would do him no good to concentrate on it

  If there were only something to distract him. Something besides darkness and vacuum, besides the faint vibration of his own footsteps and the sound of his own breath.

  He stopped to check his position in the main shaft. The side passages had letters and numbers ground sharply into their walls, and time had done nothing to dull their sharpness. Checking wasn't difficult.

  However, the low temperature made the chart brittle and difficult to handle, and that didn't sweeten his mood. He turned his suit-light on his chest controls in order that he might adjust the dehumidifier. The inner surface of his face-plate was beginning to mist over faintly from the moisture in his breath, probably because the temperature within rose with his temper, he told himself.

  He had just completed the adjustment when he moved his head sharply to one side as though he were suddenly cocking an ear to listen.

  It was exactly what he was doing. He strained to sense the rhythm of faint vibration that he "heard" now only because his own steps had ceased.

  He held his breath, remained as motionless as the rocky wall of the tunnel.

  "Lucky?" he breathed into the transmitter. "Lucky?" The fingers of his right hand had adjusted the controls. The carrier wave was scrambled. No one else would make sense out of that light whisper. But Lucky would, and soon his voice would come in answer. Bigman was ashamed to admit to himself how welcome that voice would be.

  "Lucky?" he said again.

  The vibration continued. There was no answer.

  Bigman's breathing quickened, first with tension, then with the savage joy born of excitement that always came over him when danger was in the offing.

  There was someone else in the mines of Mercury with him. Someone other than Lucky.

  Who, then? A Sirian? Had Lucky been right after all though he had thought he was merely putting up a smoke screen?

  Maybe.

  Bigman drew his blaster and put out his suit-light.

  Did they know he was there? Were they coming to get him?

  The vibrations weren't the blurred nonrhythmic "sound" of many people, or even two or three. To Bigman's keen ear, the distinctly separated "thrum-thrum" of vibration was the "sound" of one man's legs, rhythmically advancing.

  And Bigman would meet any one man, anywhere, under any conditions.

  Quietly, he put out his hand, touching the nearer wall. The vibrations sharpened noticeably. The other was in that direction then.

  He moved forward quietly in the pitch-dark, his hand keeping a light touch on the wall. The vibrations being set up by the other were too intense, too careless. Either the other believed himself alone in the mines (as Bigman himself had until a moment before) or, if he were following Bigman, he wasn't wise in the ways of the vacuum.

  Bigman's own footsteps had died to a murmur as he advanced catlike, yet the other's vibrations showed no change. Again, if the other had been following Bigman by sound, the sudden change in Bigman's progress should have been reflected in a change in the other's. It wasn't. The same conclusion, then as before.

  He turned right at the next side-tunnel entrance and continued. His hand on the wall at once kept him along the way and guided him toward
the other.

  And then there was the blinding flash of a suit-light far ahead in the darkness as the motion of another's body whipped the beam across him. Bigman froze against the wall.

  The light vanished. The other had passed across the tunnel Bigman was on. He was not advancing along it. Bigman hurried forward lightly. He would find that cross tunnel and then he would be behind the other.

  They would meet then. He, Bigman, representing Earth and the Council of Science, and the enemy representing-whom?

  8. The Enemy in the Mines

  Bigman's blaster was ready. He might have shot unerringly, but a blaster would not have left much behind. Dead men tell no tales and dead enemies explain no mysteries.

  He pursued with catlike patience, cutting down the distance between them, following the light, trying to estimate the nature of the enemy.

  His blaster always ready, Bigman moved to make first contact. First, radio! His fingers set the controls quickly for general local transmission. The enemy might have no equipment to receive that on the wave lengths Bigman could deliver. Unlikely, but possible! Very unlikely and barely possible!

  Yet it didn't matter. There was always the alternative of a light blaster bolt against the wall. It would make his point clearly enough. A blaster carried authority and had a plain way of speaking that was understood in any language anywhere.

  He said, his tenor voice carrying all the force it could muster, "Stop, you! Stop where you are and don't turn around! There's a blaster beaded in on you!"

  Bigman flashed on his suit-light, and in its glare the enemy froze. Nor did he make any effort to turn around, which was proof enough for Bigman that he had received the message.

  Bigman said, "Now turn around. Slowly!"

  The figure turned. Bigman kept his right hand in the path of his suit-light. Its metal sheath was clamped tightly about the large-caliber blaster. In the glow of the light, its outline was comfortingly clear.

  Bigman said, "This blaster is fully charged. I've killed men with it before, and I'm a dead shot."

  The enemy obviously had radio. He was obviously receiving, for he glanced at the blaster and made a motion as though to raise a hand to block off the blaster's force.

  Bigman studied what he could see of the enemy's suit. It looked quite conventional (did the Sirians use such familiar models?).

  Bigman said curtly, "Are you keyed in for radio transmission?"

  There was sudden sound in his ears and he jumped. The voice was a familiar one, even under the disguising distortion of the radio; it said, "It's Peewee, isn't it?"

  Never in his life had Bigman needed greater self-control to keep from using his blaster.

  As it was, the weapon leaped convulsively in his hand and the figure facing him leaned quickly to one side.

  "Urteil!" yelled Bigman.

  His surprise turned to disappointment. No Sirian! Only Urteil!

  Then the sharp thought: What was Urteil doing here?

  Urteil said, "It's Urteil all right. So put away the bean-shooter."

  "That gets put away when I feel like it," said Big-man. "What are you doing here?"

  "The mines of Mercury are not your private property, I think."

  "While I have the blaster they are, you fat-faced cobber." Bigman was thinking hard and, to a certain extent, futilely. What was there to do with this poisonous skunk? To take him back to the Dome would reveal the fact that Lucky was no longer in the mines. Bigman could tell them that Lucky had lingered behind, but then they would become either suspicious or concerned when Lucky failed to report. And of what crime could he accuse Urteil? The mines were free to all, at that.

  On the other hand, he could not remain indefinitely pointing a blaster at the man.

  If Lucky were here, he would know-

  And as though a telephathic spark had crossed the vacuum between the two men, Urteil suddenly said, "And where's Starr, anyway?"

  "That," said Bigman, "is nothing you have to worry about." Then, with sudden conviction, "You were following us, weren't you?" and he shoved his blaster forward a little as though encouraging the other to talk.

  In the glare of Bigman's suit-light, the other's glassite-hidden face turned downward slightly as though to follow the blaster. He said, "What if I were?"

  Again there was the impasse.

  Bigman said, "You were going along a side passage. You were going to swing in behind us."

  "I said… What if I were?" Urteil's voice had almost a lazy quality about it, as though its owner were thoroughly relaxed, as though he enjoyed having a blaster pointed at him.

  Urteil went on. "But where's your friend? Near here?"

  "I know where he is. No need for you to worry."

  "I insist on worrying. Call him. Your radio is on local transmission or I wouldn't hear you so well… Do you mind if I turn on my fluid jet? I'm thirsty." His hand moved slowly.

  "Careful," said Bigman.

  "Just a drink."

  Bigman watched tensely. He did not expect a weapon to be activated by chest control, but the suitlight could be suddenly raised to blinding intensity, or-or… Well, anything.

  But Urteil's fingers finished their motion while Bigman stood irresolute, and there was only the sound of swallowing.

  "Scare you?" asked Urteil calmly.

  Bigman could find nothing to say.

  Urteil's voice grew sharp. "Well, call the man. Call Starr!"

  Under the impact of the order, Bigman's hand began a movement and stopped.

  Urteil laughed. "You almost adjusted radio controls, didn't you? You needed distance tranmission. He's nowhere near here, is he?"

  "No such thing," cried Bigman hotly. He was burning with mortification. The large and poisonous Urteil was clever. There he stood, the target of a blaster, yet winning the battle, proving himself master of the situation, while with every passing second Bigman's own position, in which he could neither shoot nor lower his blaster, leave nor stay, grew more untenable.

  Wildly the thought gnawed at him: Why not shoot?

  But he knew he could not. He would be able to advance no reason. And even if he could, the violent death of Senator Swenson's man would make tremendous trouble for the Council of Science. And for Lucky!

  If only Lucky were here…

  Partly because he wished that so ardently, his heart leaped as Urteil's light lifted slightly and focused beyond him, and he heard Urteil say, "No, I'm wrong after all and you're right. Here he comes."

  Bigman whirled. "Lucky… "

  In his right mind, Bigman would have waited calmly enough for Lucky to reach them, for Lucky's arm to be on his shoulder, but Bigman was not quite in his right mind. His position was impossible, his deske for a way out overwhelming.

  He had time only for that one cry of "Lucky" before going down under the impact of a body fully twice as massive as his own.

  For a few moments he retained the grip on his blaster, but another arm was tearing at his hand, strong fingers were wrenching and twisting his. Bigman's breath was knocked out of him, his brain was whirling with the suddenness of the attack, and his blaster went flying.

  The weight lifted from him, and when he turned to struggle to his feet Urteil was towering over him and Bigman was staring into the muzzle of his own blaster.

  "I have one of my own," said Urteil, grimly, "but I think I'd rather use yours. Don't move. Stay that way. On hands and knees. That's right."

  Never in his life had Bigman so hated himself. To be tricked and hoodwinked this way. He almost deserved death. He would almost rather die than ever have to face Lucky and say, "He looked behind me and said you were coming so I turned… "

  He said in a strangled voice, "Shoot, if you have the nerve for it. Shoot, and Lucky will track you down and see to it that you spend the rest of your life chained to the smallest, coldest asteroid ever used as a prison."

  "Lucky will do that? Where is he?"

  "Find him."

  "I will because you'll tell me whe
re he is. And tell me, too, why he came down to the mines in the first place. What's he doing here?"

  "To find Sirians. You heard him."

  "To find comet gas," growled Urteil. "That senile fool, Peverale, may talk Sirians, but your friend never believed any of it. Not even if he only has the brains you do. He came down for another reason. You tell me."

  "Why should I?"

  "To save your miserable life."

  "That's not enough reason for me," said Bigman, and he rose to his feet and took a step forward.

  Urteil moved backward till he was leaning against the wall of the tunnel. "One more motion and I'll blast you with pleasure. I don't need your information very badly. It will save time, but not much. If I spend more than five minutes with you, it's a waste.

  "Now let me tell you exactly what I think. Maybe it will teach you that you and your tin hero, Starr, are fooling nobody. Neither one of you is good for anything more than tricks with force-knives against an unarmed man."

  Bigman thought gloomily: That's what's griping the cobber. I made him look like a jackass in front of the boys, and he's waiting for me to crawl.

  "If you're going to do all that talking," he said, squeezing as much contempt into his voice as he could manage, "you might as well shoot. I'd rather be blasted than talked to death."

  "Don't race for it, little fellow, don't race for it. In the first place, Senator Swenson is breaking the Council of Science. You're just an item, a tiny one. Your friend Starr is just another item, and not a much bigger one. I'm the one who's going to do the breaking. We've got the Council where we want it. The people of Earth know it's riddled with corruption, that its officers waste the taxpayers' money and line their own pockets- "

  "That's a filthy lie," broke in Bigman.

  "We'll let the people decide that. Once we puncture the phony propaganda the Council puts out, we'll see what the people think."

  "You try that. Go ahead and try!"

  "We intend to. We'll succeed too. And this will be exhibit number one: you two in the mines. I know why you're here. The Sirians! Huh! Starr either put Peverale up to telling the story, or he just took advantage of it. I'll tell you what you two are doing down here. You're faking the Sirians. You're setting up a Sirian camp to show people.