“I’ll take the figures,” Mike Killmer snapped.
After tense moments of listening and figuring, he raised a haggard face.
“We can’t be sure on this, but I don’t like it. I want to see a measurable safety margin and it isn’t there. If he makes it, he’ll just make it, and that’s all.”
“I heard that,” Anderson cut in. “I’ll keep trying, but if you see I can’t make it, let me know in time to kick out the hold-back valves on the feed line. I can at least blow this crate into small enough pieces so they won’t hurt anybody when they land.”
Behind Shannon, Marla Wylie choked back a sob. Al Spaine was whispering curses in a mumbling monotone. The electric computator clicked and whirred, feeding back figures to check Killmer’s data. Ohrbeck was silent, gnawing his fists. Shannon could see Tubby Martin’s round face from the corner of his eye. It was white, strained, unnatural.
Tubby Martin wasn’t seeing a kid named Billy Anderson. He was still seeing Mack Drummond, smeared out on a mountain on Venus. His best friend.
An hour rocketed past, the minutes slipping through Shannon’s clutching fingers. Tension was a solid, aching thing that beat at his brain. He was vaguely aware that someone was clutching his shoulder, kneading, it with unconscious ferocity.
A hand set a glass of water before him, and he gulped it without turning to identify the donor. Sweat blurred his vision and when he finally dashed it away, two more precious minutes had fled.
More readings came in. Suddenly Mike Killmer hurled away his computation sheets.
“He can’t make it. He can’t! His time is half gone and he’s only swung eighty-three point four degrees. He’ll come in at an angle and crash.”
Suddenly it seemed as though all the weariness in the universe swept over Lane Shannon. He slumped forward against the transmitter, feeling the strength wash out of nerves and muscles. It was a physical effort to speak and his voice, when it did come, was scarcely more than a whisper.
“No, he won’t. He’ll make it, now. He’s won. He only had to fight halfway. Beyond ninety degrees, the Lunar beam stops fighting him and starts pulling him back into line again. The beam doesn’t care which way his ship’s pointing, as long as it’s in line.
“That was what I figured on. Didn’t dare cut him off first ninety degrees to make it easier. If he—lost the beam—he’d never get back on again without steering jets—”
Everything blurred for Shannon then. He knew dimly that voices were shouting and hands were pounding his back and shoulders. Someone was squeezing his arm, pumping it. Through the blur in his eyes, that someone looked like Allen Spaine, but that couldn’t be.
“Easy! Easy!”
Shannon found his voice at last. “He isn’t in the clear until he lands. Someone go tell the dispatcher what’s up. Have him clear everybody off the field. Have him cut me in here on the field line.
“When I give the word, tell him to break the beam. Then run like blazes. The rest of you clear out. When the beam lets go, that ship will spray jet-blast all over this end of North America, trying to sit down on her tail.”
It was Al Spaine who answered for them all.
“I’ll see the dispatcher. But we’re sticking this out.”
There was no time to argue. Time was leaping toward the crisis. Shannon began to talk quietly, earnestly, calmingly, discussing the problem of landing the big ship, suggesting shifts to increase tail-heaviness. Darkness closed in.
Someone touched the button that rolled back a section of roof, leaving only glassite panes between them and the northern sky.
“I’ve stopped turning,” Anderson said suddenly. And a few minutes later: “Hull temperature rising. That means atmosphere. One way or another, you should see me soon.”
“Grit your teeth,” Shannon said, “and start decelerating.”
* * * *
The blast roared in the speaker, spurted and died.
“There he is!”
All saw it simultaneously, a pin-streak of flame crawling fitfully down the black vault of the sky. Anderson came back to the screen, white-faced, dull-eyed, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth and nostrils.
“I can stop her,” he panted. “If my teeth don’t fly out the top of my skull.”
It was brutal punishment, cramming thousands of miles of deceleration into half a dozen, but Billy Anderson took it somehow and his piloting was superb.
Down! Down!
At a thousand feet they could see the tubes, white-hot pencils of lashing fury, separated from shells of high-explosive fuel only by thin bulkheads. If the landing split those guarding walls, drove the hot tubes into the mush—
“You’ll hear me cut out the beam in a second,” Shannon said. “Stand ready to give ten seconds’ full blast through the bent tubes, to throw the ship out of line with the building. Then come down. And Billy. If you overbalance and come in on your side—”
Anderson found the ghost of a grin. “I can take it, Chief.”
“Then—Cut beam!”
The big ship plumed a boiling maelstrom of crimson fury. The blast of it pattered on the glass overhead, seared the upturned faces. There was no perceptible lateral shift but the rocket ship was coming down, beating its wings of flame against the cup of the field, painting the surrounding buildings with its lurid glare.
“Stay level,” Shannon prayed. “Stay level.”
The night was all flame and thunder, blinding them, battering the universe.
Shannon squeezed his eyes tight against the agony of the flame.
The thunder stopped. There was a sharp, crunching thud, then the heavy clangor of falling metal. But no explosion.
Somehow Shannon was out in the screaming echoes of the night, racing beside Killmer and Spaine and Marla and Tubby Martin. Field lights came on, bathing the dust-wrapped giant. Other men were running toward the crash.
A siren was screaming.
Nobody ran away, Shannon thought. Spacemen don’t run away when help is needed.
Figures plunged into the dust and smoke.
There came the rip of protesting metal. Then the figures were coming back.
Not carrying him. Helping him stand and walk between them.
Lane Shannon heard Marla Wylie sob, heard Al Spaine curse happily. Then he was facing Billy Anderson, a trickle of blood across the youngster’s forehead, burns and blisters and a sick whiteness. Interns came running from the ambulance. Anderson opened his eyes, grinned weakly at Shannon. One hand fumbled out, groping.
“Hi, Chief! I made it. You’re tops in my book, any day.”
Shannon took the kid’s hand, fought the lump in his throat as they led the boy away.
Al Spaine moved up beside the man he had despised.
“My tricycle’s parked over on traffic level, boss. Can I give you a lift to your hotel?”
CHAPTER VIII
Disaster
They were all in the office when Lane Shannon arrived the next morning. He came in, walking on air. Billy Anderson would be out and flying in a week. A new tube assembly and some patching would put the Heavy Six back in service. And things were changed—
“Good morning,” they all said.
But something wasn’t quite right—yet. There was a tension, a strain on their faces and in their eyes. Shannon thought he knew what caused it and what to do about it. He had lain awake planning instead of sleeping.
He went through into his own office and sat down behind the desk. It felt more like his own now. The serpentine coils of a newstape lay in front of him, with its uppermost items circled in red crayon. Something about the freight fight, that Marla Wylie wanted him to see.
He glanced at the strip without actually seeing it, then crumpled it in his hand. What news could be as important this morning as the news he was about to reveal?
Sha
nnon twisted around to grin up at the face of John Leverance.
“You win,” he whispered. “Do you mind if I borrow your dream?”
The portrait of John Leverance seemed to smile.
Shannon snapped the communicator stud.
“Everybody in my office for a talk.”
He faced them, the newstape crumpled in his fist. For a moment he was silent, framing his words with care.
“I don’t quite know how to say this,” he began finally. “Or how you’ll take it. But—something happened last night to me. Marla was right. I have no right to smash men and their dreams for a twisted hatred.
“Last night I found a new goal to fight for—Venus Freight Line. I’ll keep on fighting, but not for revenge. For the finest little spaceline in the System! I’m going after business—hard and honestly. It won’t be easy, because I’ve got to go back three years and clear my own name.
“But I know now that our little enterprise will win out. On that basis, will you stick and help?”
Nobody cheered. Marla Wylie finally broke the silence with a tight, choked sound that might have been a sob. She whirled to the door, snatched it open and ran blindly out.
Shannon frowned in bewilderment. Nerves, probably. This whole crazy time must have been a terrible strain. He faced the others again.
“You heard how Conway levered us out of our space here at the field. I’ve hit back on that—by leasing better space where he didn’t expect me. On the Moon. We’ll leave someone here to maintain a pickup office, and make Lunopolis our headquarters. It’s a better location, anyhow.
“Then we’ll need new ships. I’m placing an order for four of the newest A-class carriers, giving the factory an assignment of my next payment from Pluto in lieu of cash. And—”
“Hold your bar a minute, Shannon,” Mike Killmer said, studying him narrowly. “Is this an act? Or don’t you know what that thing you’re waving around is?”
He nodded toward the crumpled newstape. Shannon gaped at it, conscious that they were watching him like hawks. Finally he dropped into his chair, smoothed the tape and read the curt lines of the latest news flashes received.
PLUTO ENTERPRISES ATTACKED… CONWAY CARGOES IN SURPRISE MOVE CHARGE PLUTO ENTERPRISES WITH MISMANAGEMENT OF MINE EARNINGS… DEMAND COMPLETE INVESTIGATION… INTERPLANETARY COURT ISSUES INJUNCTION FREEZING PLUTO ENTERPRISES BANK ACCOUNTS PENDING COMPLETE INVESTIGATION OF CHARGES… VEDALIAN DISCOVERERS AND INVESTORS HIT BY TIE-UP OF COMPANY FUNDS.
The strip fluttered out of Shannon’s fingers. He was stunned, shocked beyond coherent thought. He had underestimated Titus Conway’s power in the System, and this was the bitter penalty.
He had a little cash left from his purchase of Venus Freight Line. Two or three thousand, at most. The remainder of the million and a half he had planned for working capital—fighting capital—was frozen on Pluto.
Eventually he’d get all or most of it. But not until Conway’s experts had dragged in every known and unknown trick to delay the investigation and final settlement. Meanwhile, his holdings weren’t good for even a dollar’s worth of credit.
A light burst in Shannon’s brain. “You people—Marla—you thought I knew about this, and was only changing my tactics to recoup some of my loss on freight income. That was why she ran out?”
Mike Killmer answered for them all. “I guess maybe it was just our turn to be wrong, boss. We’ll stick—to what’s left.”
Tubby Martin made a strangled sound. His face was twisted, streaked with angry tears. His eyes were wild, feverish.
“I’m not sticking! Go ahead and haul your freight. Forget Mack Drummond. Slap Titus Conway’s wrist and call it a fight, if you want to. Mack was my friend! The rat who murdered him is still walking and breathing and ruling the entire universe.
“Go ahead and send some more men out to be slaughtered by sabotage and rotten mush and overloaded ships! I’ll wipe the slate clean my way!”
He whirled, sobbing, and raced for the door.
“Tubby!” Shannon roared. “Stop him! He’s out of his head!”
Killmer and Spaine lunged frantically. The chunky figure sidestepped, kicked furiously and was gone. A door slammed and a tricycle car roared away outside.
“Jupiter!” Killmer picked himself up, white-faced. “There goes murder looking for a place to happen.”
“Try to stop him, head him off,” Shannon snapped. “I’ve ordered a crew in to handle packing and moving. There’s enough money left for that, at least. Where did Marla go?”
Spaine shook his head.
“Who knows? She said before you came that if you didn’t take this new move the right way, she wouldn’t be back.”
Shannon groaned.
“Try to catch Tubby. I’ll keep this end up and put out a hunt for her. Venus Freight Line is just about kicking now, and that’s all. One more body punch from Conway while we’re disorganized like this and the fight will be over. Get going!”
* * * *
Spaine and Killmer came back in the afternoon, shaking their heads. Tubby Martin, completely unbalanced by his friend’s death and the nerve strain of the night before, could not be found. Shannon, in turn, had been unable to locate Marla Wylie. She had vacated her apartment without leaving a forwarding address.
Despite his gnawing anxiety, Shannon had forced himself to keep a grip on the job at hand. He learned that the full repair bill of the damaged Heavy Six would amount to just under nineteen hundred dollars. When he had written a check, his bank balance was less than four hundred. Not even enough to complete the move to Moon City and meet the next payrolls.
There would be nothing left for overhauls, establishment of a branch office on Earth, equipment of shops and cradle house at Moon City, purchase of fuel reserves.
At the darkest time, Keene, the stock broker, switched in on the visi-phone.
“Mr. Shannon. The bid is up three-quarters on that insurance stock and leveling off. Do you still insist we hold it?”
“No!” Shannon roared. “Sell, as fast as you can. Are you sure the holdings are scattered so single ownership won’t be suspected?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Shannon. You can trust our judgment.”
Shannon cut the switch. Meanwhile they’d been given orders to get off the premises that afternoon.
At three o’clock a squad of armed deputies moved in. At three-fifteen, Venus Freight Line and its personnel—with the exception of Marla Wylie and Tubby Martin—blasted off for the Moon. They flew Mitie Ohrbeck’s overhauled G-3, with Killmer at the controls and all their files and equipment stored in the hold. Ohrbeck himself stayed behind to bring up the Heavy Six as soon as repairs were completed.
They left the old, discarded G-l on its rack. Despite their desperate need for ships, Shannon ruled it unsafe and ordered it sold for junk. Weakened hull segments caused a constant twisting during flight that cracked off the plastic energy-transferring meteor shield in great chunks. And they needed the few hundred dollars’ cash it would bring.
There was one break. Marquard, the pilot whom Shannon had yet to meet, had loaded and cleared Venus City Spaceport before the Conway lid clamped down. He was blasting down to meet them at Moon City the next afternoon. Spaine and Killmer assured Shannon that Marquard, too, would stick with Venus Line. Shannon felt better.
The beam pulled them down into their leased cradle at Moon City Spaceport during the early morning hours, terrestrial time. Moon City itself was a flat, dark blister on the wall of Maurolycus Crater, most of its enterprises stretching deep into the caverns or lined along the great subterranean highways to Stofler and Pitiscus and the Cuvier Crater mines.
The retractable cradle dropped them down into the vast air-conditioned under-pits, into a beehive of activity. The artificial sun was on and repair shops, freight terminals and loading docks were going full blast. A pneumatube car sped
them to roomy, comfortable quarters Shannon had leased by televisor before Conway thought of shutting off this area to his enemy. A crew went to work with quiet efficiency, unloading and setting up the equipment of office and shop.
“We’ve got to locate a new maintenance man,” Shannon said sadly. “And a new secretary, too, I guess.”
He paced the floor, biting his lips. Al Spaine wandered to a purring news-beam receiver and read the jutting tape. Suddenly he yelped, clawed off the strip and whirled toward Shannon. His eyes were bulging, wild.
“Shannon! He did it! The crazy wild man did it!”
Shannon spun around. “Who? Did what?” he demanded.
“Tubby Martin. Right after we blasted off, he ran wild. Broke into Conway’s place, shot down two guards and kidnapped Titus Conway and his daughter. He got clear away and blasted off in our old condemned G-One, with half the patrol ships and I.B.I. men on Earth trying to cut him off.”
“Good Lord!” Shannon sagged against the wall, feeling his whole world tumbling around his head. “The poor, cracked—Wait! Call Service to jam new fuel shells in our ship and swing it around for blast-off—quick. I’ve got to go after him. I know where he’s headed, what he’s planning to do. And nobody can block him but me.”
“Lane! Stop it!” Spaine and Killmer fell on Shannon, pinning his arms, wrestling him back from the door. “You can’t fly. You’re grounded and the penalty for breaking ground-order is two years on ‘The Ball’—two years on Penal Asteroid!”
“Let go!” Shannon demanded, struggling. “I’ve got to go alone. He’ll kill himself and Conway and that innocent girl. I tell you, I know how that warped brain of his is working. I know where he’s heading—” From the doorway, a crisp voice interrupted.
“We’re glad to hear that, Shannon. You come on over to Headquarters and give us the dope and we’ll do the stopping.”
He was a powerfully built man in official uniform, with belt and buckle around his waist, insignia denoting his rank on-his shoulder straps and a grayish plastic helmet. His right hand gripped a stubby blast pistol.
Behind him stood two subordinates, similarly uniformed and equally determined.
The Space Opera Novella Page 5
