The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “You’ve got something,” Tweed said, thoughtfully. “And the job is easy, if you understand the alloy the shell is made of.”

  “So you’re wise to that, too? Then let’s have at it.”

  Mango gin was peculiar stuff. It worked like a bomb with a delayed-action fuse. However hard the initial impact might be, it was relatively mild compared to the payoff blast.

  “When they feel anything at all,” Carson observed, as he looked over the several who lay in huddles about the boarding port, “they’ll wish they were dead. And with everyone out cold, we have time to do our job.”

  * * * *

  Once in his cabin, after having made the rounds of the Hyperion, just to make sure none of the wrong people were conscious, Carson said to Tweed, “I feel nasty about roping you in on this.”

  Tweed shrugged. “We’ll get homesick. We’ll forget the headaches we had back home; we’ll remember all the good things. Friends and the like; to say nothing of doctors and dentists. If we live here long enough to get creaky and rusty, it will be tough.”

  “I’ve been thinking of all that. Is there any really important girl, back home?”

  “Nice, but I can get over it; how about you?”

  “A fellow could have done a lot worse. But being a hero’s widow won’t be a bad break for Flora at all. I like these people. If it hadn’t been for my brilliant pigheadedness, they’d been left in peace.”

  “Uh—listen, Walt—I hate to burn this ship. She’s the sweetest job that ever scorched a takeoff platform; there’s gear and equipment that could be unshipped and used. Why not just foul up the instruments so she can’t be navigated?”

  Carson sighed. “As long as she is here, every native will be on edge; you and I will be on edge. Convincing them that we are here for keeps and none of us can go back to bring a crowd of invaders, to take the place over, would be impossible as long as the ship is here. They can’t think in the scientific terms we take for granted.”

  Carson and Tweed set to work, drilling holes into bulkheads and hull-plates. The peculiarity of the alloy was that if sufficient high test thorium ore was pulverized, then activated and rammed home, an atomic pile would be formed. The chain-reaction eventually set in motion would be relatively slow; instead of a detonation, there would be a flash like the oxidation of magnesium; a mere explosion, but violent enough.

  The only uncertainty was this: how long would it take for the critical point to be reached?

  Once there were sufficient hot spots to give the Hyperion no chance of survival, Carson said, “Grab the first-aid supplies, and then we’ll get these fellows sobered up and moving.”

  “How’ll we get them far enough away?”

  “I’ll tend to that. You hustle to the village and tell Kalgar to keep everyone four-five miles from the ship. There might be more of a blast than we’re counting on. Cook up any kind of a yarn that they’ll understand. All that counts is that they’ve got to stay well away, and that they’re convinced I’m going to keep the crew in line.”

  * * * *

  Once Tweed was on the way, Carson set to work giving the drunks subcutaneous injections to snap them out of it. Reviving, the bemuddled fellows flocked around Carson for the next stage of treatment: beakers of foaming mixture, followed by vitamins.

  The final course of shots in the arm brought them up to normal, as far as they could tell. This would carry them along until they had actually straightened out.

  “After the hell you fellows raised,’ he began, “we are getting out of here. We are too badly outnumbered. Even with weapons to clean up the town, we’d finally be swamped—starved out—whittled down. But before we haul out, we are going to make this stop pay off.”

  There were questions. He had them hooked.

  “Starting that riot,” he continued, “crabbed the plan I was working on. Beyond the hot springs—” He pointed. “There is a sort of low, stumpy tower. A round about path through the jungle will get us there without being spotted.”

  “From all I was able to gather by keeping my mouth shut and my ears open, and being sociable, the place is packed with bars of platinum and gold alloys. It’s a kind of temple bank. The gods are the stockholders, you might put it. The people borrow there, and pay back seven bars for each five they took out; we are going to float us a loan before we leave.”

  Carson did not for an instant believe that he had gained their goodwill. On the other hand, the bait had made them side track their personal resentments for the time being. He resumed, after a pause, “Grab your kits and line up; bring extra charges. The tower is solid. It’ll take a barrage to disintegrate the wall.”

  * * * *

  They lost no time in turning out with side-arms. Carson led them along a trail that snaked into the jungle. It was not hard going.

  “Where’s Tweed?” someone demanded.

  “Squaring things up with Kalgar. Telling him I’ve got the whole crew under arrest; no liberty till further notice.”

  Emerging from the forest, they came to a broad stretch of wastelands. This barren space was all of quivering pumice. Steam plumed up through crevasses and blowholes; where the ground was firm, it was even worse, being of black lava, crisscrossed by deep slashes. For each mile gained, there had been a detour of three or four miles.

  They were battered, bruised, cut and scratched from floundering among the ridges of volcanic debris. Camp was made early. While Carson’s doctoring had forestalled hangovers, there would be a steep let-down. Garrett fagged, though he had appeared sober enough at the time of the riot. Apparently, the tricky liquor had worked true to form, so that while quitting before he had begun to feel the effects, there had nevertheless been a delayed knockout. On the other hand, Garrett and another sober-seeming one, Ames, had been busy rounding up drunks and herding them to the Hyperion, while Carson and Tweed planted the seeds of destruction.

  All in all, Carson felt that he had things well in hand. Considering that he, himself, was dog-tired, he could count on none of the crew’s going on the prowl, looking for trouble.

  “Which watch will you take, mister?” he asked Garrett. “It’s between you and me; the men will dope off for sure.”

  “Ames is OK,” Garrett said. “Divide it between the three of us.”

  Carson ended by taking the first watch. He did not expect trouble from the natives. Tweed’s message to Kalgar would check any natural impulse toward private revenge. However, standing watch would suggest that there was danger, and help keep the crowd in hand.

  * * * *

  In the morning, Carson learned how dangerously he had failed in sizing up the entire situation. Without warning, and as though at a signal, he was seized from behind. His captors disarmed him before he could begin to defend himself. And then he was facing Garrett’s drawn gun.

  “I’m taking command; you are under arrest, skipper, for going beyond the bounds of your authority,” Garrett announced. “Ames and I checked up, last night, with a couple of our native friends. There is nothing in that tower but images, and small offerings.” He grinned. “The crewmen have been making enemies, by and large. But we’ve not all been that way; that’s where you slipped.”

  “Do you realize that this is mutiny?”

  Garrett shook his head. “You had a stowaway, and you let him exercise command, which was illegal; you shot two crewmen. During flight, you could have done that, within the Space Articles, if the safety of the ship made it necessary. This happened to be on land. So you are going to face trial for misconduct, and murder. We can make it stick, and we will make it stick, regardless of your in-laws.

  “You have teamed up with Kalgar, against your own men. You could have led this outfit into an ambush. Then, with most of the eye witnesses to the shooting disposed of, there’d have been a faked heroic withdrawal, and flight for home.”

  “That story won’t stick,” Cars
on objected.

  “The hell it won’t; you’re outnumbered. Don’t count on Tweed. We took care of him, last night. There is a shortcut to town. You didn’t fool me, marching us around in circles.”

  “You’ve gone a long way to settle a grudge, mister. Even as far as disposing of a witness favorable to me.”

  “Tweed was plotting with the natives to ambush the whole party,” Garrett retorted. “Once he was knocked out of action, the natives changed their tune. All right, get going; we’re taking off. We don’t need to wait for any more fuel. There’s enough in the bunkers to get us to Mars.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Locked up in a compartment of the Hyperion, Carson saw no way of breaking Garrett’s luck.

  As far as Carson, himself, was concerned, he could gain nothing by telling Garrett that the ship would disintegrate in flight—or perhaps before she took off. To disassemble the atomic boosters would accomplish nothing but setting him back to Terra, to face trial. It was clear that he’d no chance of acquittal. Whether he blinked out in mid-space or faced a firing squad was pretty much of a toss up. In refusing to warn Garrett, he was giving the natives a break; it was actually costing him nothing except the strain of waiting for the blast of annihilation.

  If ever again there came an expedition of “gods”, the natives would know how to deal with them—provided that the strangers were not too numerous to be ambushed without parley.

  Recalling ancient history, what had befallen the Aztecs and the Incas, some eleven centuries previous, Carson wondered why barbarians were always so befuddled by superstition as to reject the clear chance of insuring their own safety.

  Meanwhile, atoms were having their electrons knocked off; destruction gathered. Carson settled down to the problem of saving his own hide, if he could, and including the crew in his strategy. Mutiny or no, this was an obligation which he could not evade.

  Fagged out from their binge and their long march, they had decided against taking off at once; they needed clear heads for crossing the dangerous asteroid-belt.

  It was difficult for Carson to keep from fingering the deck and bulkheads, to see if the temperature was rising; it was impossible to keep from breaking into a sweat as he undertook to race an unknown competitor whose start—however sluggish—accelerated in geometrical ratio.

  When it finally came to him, Carson could only wonder why it had taken so long for him to discard all the impossible devices which had made him waste so much time.

  A few words via intercom brought two crewmen to herd him to Garrett’s quarters. It was nearly daybreak; take-off hour could not be far ahead. Carson said to Garrett, “Don’t let a personal grudge make a chump of you, mister. Going back with your report will be glory enough, without trotting me along; going back with a cargo of treasure will redouble it. And I’ll tell you how it can be done.”

  “You played us for suckers once,” Garrett countered.

  “Kalgar and I got along like brothers,” Carson explained. “I rate with the natives, and with him—and, plenty. Man to man, that gunwork of mine is the best thing I ever did for you.”

  Garrett began to catch on. “You mean they’d pay off if I turned you loose?”

  “Sure, they would; just enter into the log that I escaped.”

  Garrett shook his head. “There will be another expedition. And there would be a leak, sooner or later. That’d make it awkward for me.”

  “If you can’t figure further than that,” Carson said, contemptuously, “you can’t navigate your way back home. Are you sure you’re not taking me along—instead of having me ‘shot while resisting arrest’—just to show you the way back, when the going gets sticky?”

  “Well, let’s hear your notion!”

  “Simply report me escaped. You can always make good, on your return, by getting some native into a nasty spot, so he’ll have to turn me in—to save his own hide. Meanwhile, I will be getting a break; the longer I can stay out of court, the better for me.”

  “That begins to make sense. How much will Kalgar dig up?”

  “Turn out the whole crew and keep your eyes open. By daylight, and in open country, there’s no risk of being ambushed or bottled up in a spot where guns don’t help. It stands to reason that there must be a lot of ingots hoarded up. And, well out of sight—or else those hoodlums would not have bothered looting graveyards and snatching women’s trinkets. Kalgar will dig and keep digging until you tell him to quit; that is, until every compartment is loaded to the limit.”

  “We can’t lose,” Garrett admitted, after having studied the obvious so carefully that he convinced himself that there could not be any trick. “It’s a cinch to win.”

  He was right. He had just decided to save himself and his crew.

  Hands lashed in front of him, Carson led his escort. He was in front so that upon sighting any natives, he could parley before they took to their heels at the sight of the armed party.

  The bulkheads had been getting warmer. Carson, out of the deathtrap, developed a new and cruel uneasiness. To be caught by the blast, now, would be infinitely worse than before he had talked himself out of his prison.

  “What the hell’s the hurry?” Garrett gasped. “Going to a fire?”

  “If you were in my place,” Carson answered, slackening his pace, “you’d be impatient. I spent a tough night.” The time it would take to amass sufficient loot to satisfy the crew would be enough. There would be no need even of maneuvering for a chance to tell Kalgar to stall as much as possible.

  Ahead were hot springs. Gusts of warm vapor blanketed the broken ground. From high-spots, Carson could look over the low-lying steam, and see the town, now ruddy in the early light. On a distant hummock, he spotted several natives; they were carrying baskets, probably loaded with garden truck.

  “See them?” Carson exclaimed. “Gone, now!”

  * * * *

  A few moments later, Garrett spied a farmer, and then a second. The first carried something which twinkled in the dawn. It might have been an axe. Despite the advantage of carrying explosive weapons, the crew became alert; they craned their necks. The only sounds were the hiss and gurgle and bubbling of springs, and the crunch of feet, and the rattle of dislodged rocks.

  Carson tripped. Hands bound, he took a header, rolled down a rough slope, banging up against a ledge. Someone chortled. Another cursed, and from alarm, rather than because of a stubbed toe.

  There was a thump, and the familiar blast of a power projector.

  Carson’s first thought was that someone behind him, tripping, had accidentally triggered his weapon.

  Another blast; a chunk of rock, still shooting sparks, rattled down to crash against Carson. It took him a moment to realize that the blasts had not been aimed at him; they were wild shots. The crew were now cutting loose, right and left. From steam veiled crevasses came answering fire.

  Answering fire—not echoes. That was what numbed Carson’s mind as effectively as had the dislodged rock paralyzed his body. A crew man, shot to smoking tatters, slid downgrade. Primitive missiles hissed and smacked. Firing crazily into the treacherous mists, Carson’s captors broke in panic; their superior weapons were of no avail against assailants they could not see. Meanwhile, they were being peppered with powder guns, right flank and left.

  The only way Carson could explain the shooting from both sides of the party was that some of Garrett’s crew, stumbling around in the mist, had gone trigger-happy at the sight of hostile natives, and were firing at their own comrades by mistake.

  As he struggled with his bonds, trying to burn them against the glowing rim of the blasted rock, the voices receded. Carson wondered, as he seared and scorched himself, what he could do when he was free. From the hips down, he was still helpless.

  Once the mistake was discovered, his chance would be gone.

  The bonds yielded. Palms to the ground, he hoisted
himself and tried to get his legs beneath him; he could not.

  Then from the swirling steam came several natives. Seeing him, they yelled with glee, picked him up to hustle him along mist-veiled ways. Soon there were no sounds of combat or of flight. Bit by bit, the answer came to Carson. The night of the riot, he had given Kalgar the guns dropped by the two drunks who had fired on the crowd.

  Presently, he made his rescuers set him on his feet and hold him upright. One leg had come to life; that one was not enough. They had to carry him further.

  His friends finally halted to rest. The mists were thinning. Carson saw three men approaching. One had a gun; so did the two natives who were with him. Tweed, all bandaged, hobbled along, covering the ground in awkward bounds.

  “I heard—they told me—Garrett did, I mean,” Carson fumbled, “that they’d settled you for keeps.”

  “Damn near did, but Kalgar’s boys patched me up. Anyway, when I came out of it enough to understand what had happened to you—what must have happened—we set out for the ship. None of the natives had the least notion that she was hot, or would stay that way until you were back aboard. I was afraid you’d been knocked cold before you could get in a word, to warn Garrett.”

  “She still is hot.”

  “What?”

  “Sure.” He told his story, and concluded, “Meanwhile, you figured you might wangle your way aboard and pull a surprise attack?”

  One of the natives shouted, and gestured.

  Flame enveloped the landing struts of the Hyperion. She rose on her column of exhaust blast, dazzling white even in full day. It spread out over the ground until, accelerating, she made a long silvery streak against the sky.

  Carson watched. The improvised pile might fail; it might be discovered in time, and taken down. His mind became a jarring confusion from the contradictions which wracked it. He hoped that the mutineers would act in time—and he hoped that the blast would make sure that there would never again be an expedition beyond Mars. The clash became unendurable. He tried to turn away from watching the diminishing speck of silver; he wished that he could black out, but he did not.