"You are one of the conspirators," he repeated.
"I am ... if you call us that," Jonquil replied woodenly. A touch of pity came into his eyes. "You wouldn't understand, Max."
"What wouldn't I understand?" he asked curiously.
"Why I have to kill you." Jonquil's voice was toneless. "This conspiracy, as you call it, is the work of decades, Max. Untold men have sown seeds that their brothers might reach the stars. The harvest is here and no single man can stand in the way . . ."
"Harvest of death," Krull broke in bitterly. "You've sold yourself a bill of goods and turned against the law, the First Law of Mankind. Turn back, Martin. Turn back now and no one need ever know," he pleaded.
"No," Jonquil said harshly. His body stiffened.
"Jonquil—wait . . ." He suddenly knew only split seconds of life remained.
Jonquil's hand was moving up.
KruD brought his foot up through the sand, kicking it into the agent's face; at the same instant he spun around and leaped from the cliff, hearing the staccato bark of the automatic behind him. He straightened his body in midair and struck the water at a steep angle . . . swam along the bottom with powerful breast strokes. Have to get out of range, he thought desperately. Jonquil would be waiting for him to come up. He finally broke water long enough to catch a breath and throw a fast backward look. Jonquil's body was silhouetted against the sky. When he came up again, the Inspector was gone.
He debated, then swam toward the beach. Jonquil or no Jonquil, he would smash the conspiracy. There was a conspiracy and it was in the grotto; he knew that from the Inspector's mind. Anna had been right on that score. He smiled grimly. From here on out it was going to be rough.
He clambered up onto the beach and stood for a moment breathing heavily, looking upward into the night. The stars glittered in savage splendor, magically mirrored again in the black water at his feet. Strange, he had never particularly thought of the stars before. He had read some, of course—remembered a description of space that had likened it to a vast box without sides or top or bottom. To the mind of man space is infinite. Logic and reason proclaim the fact; yet the word vast itself implied a finite quality that puzzled him. He knew about the solar system, galaxies, inter-galactic space; but it struck him forcibly that man —here and now—could envision it in terms of conquest.
What power moved men like Jonquil that they were willing to forsake the laws of their kind? His eyes fastened on a brilliant red star and he watched it fascinated. There was a hypnotic quality about the baleful eye and he reluctantly looked away. Was that it? Did men look at the stars and lose their reason? He wondered. He had always considered the sky an artistic creation; but it was more, far more, to Bok . . . Jonquil—how many others? It wasn't the beauty of the Universe that caught them. They didn't see it as artistic, not as an awesome and God-formed cosmos, but as something to be conquered. Power—it was the symbol of power. Men looked skyward and became power-mad. Even Jonquil. He returned his thoughts to his predicament.
Traitors, conspirators, the Manager's killers—he was besieged on every side. But he knew the secret, knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt. Incredible as it seemed, the conspiracy was centered under black, forbidding Chimney Rock. Okay, he'd dig it out, single-handed if need be. Do that and no man could touch him. Not even Shevach if he became Prime Thinker. But he needed help.
Whom could he trust?
The agents of police were out. Wait—Grimhorn, he was the man. The Chief of World Agents was a man of integrity. But at the moment he couldn't wait. Jonquil couldn't afford disclosure; even now he'd be organizing a net to snare him. Kill him. Alba. The innkeeper was a good friend. Alba would hide him, handle the message to Grimhorn.
He abruptly turned and plunged into the shadows of the trees, cutting across the atoll. If Jonquil were right, Shevach knew the secret of the Rock, was rushing to break the conspiracy and grab the glory. Damn, he thought frantically, there wouldn't be time to wait for Grimhom. He cursed without slowing his pace.
He broke out on the opposite shore and halted, momentarily puzzled. The seaplane ramp was flooded with light, light and movement and sound. He heard the creak of winches and voices born on the night breeze, caught sight of a moored seaplane carrier. He moved closer, keeping in the shadow of the foliage until he reached the edge of the circle of light.
Shevach! There was no mistaking the Manager's slim figure; the burly Gullfin and cadaverous Merryweather loomed beside him. He cursed at the sight of die Search-master, stopping as he spotted Jonquil and Anna. They were cagey, he thought. The conspiracy was collapsing like a house of cards and they were joining the winners. Merryweather began pivoting his head with his chin tilted up as if he were sniffing the wind. Krull stepped back in alarm. The man was a bloodhound. Inhuman.
The creak of a winch caught his attention. TorpsI They were moving torps from the seaplane carrier. Police torps with weapon compartments in the hull. The conspirators wouldn't have a chance. That explained Anna's presence. She was there to guide them.
A traitor 1
He wheeled aroung and raced back along the beach. Damn Shevach! Damn the traitor Jonquil! They couldn't rob him now. He'd beat 'em, beat 'em. The words became a refrain in his mind and he forced his body to greater effort. At the end of the atoll he splashed across the partially submerged bar to Te-Tai and forced his tired legs to a dead run. He was gasping, his lungs burned and sweat stung his eyes. He saw fights on the headland and began shouting while still a hundred yards away.
"Comingerl Cominger!" The name came with a wheeze from his tortured lungs. He had almost reached the porch when a door swung open, framing the hermit's lean figure in a shaft of light. Krull pulled to a stop, breathing harshly, trying to get his voice.
Cominger looked worriedly at him. "What is it?"
"Your torp," he gasped. Cominger took a backward step and eyed him owlishly.
"What about it?"
"I need it."
"Why?" The hermit seemed to compose himself with effort.
"Chimney Rock—I've got to get to the rock." Cominger's body stiffened. "No." "I'm ordering you as an agent of police." "No," Cominger repeated desperately. "Give it to me, or 111 take it."
"Why?" the hermit parried, his voice suddenly curious. "What's the emergency?"
"Damn you, Cominger, there's trouble at the rock. The police—Ivan Shevach—are unloading torps at the ramp. They're heading there but it's my baby. I cracked it and I'm going to get there first."
"Shevach I" The name dropped from the hermit's lips in disbelief. Suddenly he drew himself up. "Listen, you don't know the area. You'd wreck the torp, kill yourself. But I know it. I'll take you."
"Then let's get going."
"Follow me." Cominger raced to the far end of the porch with Krull at his heels.
"Grab some gear." He dived into a pile of underwater equipment and Krull sprang to help him. They quickly stripped to their shorts and strapped on compressed air tanks and breathing masks.
"One second." Cominger dashed into the house and returned with a small rubber sack that he hooked to his gear. Gun, Krull thought—he's afraid of me. He made a mental note of it. At least he knew where a gun was when the time came.
The torp was a long cylindrical affair just now above the tide line. The hermit rolled the vehicle into the water and tugged it into position. Suddenly he straightened and raised a hand for silence.
"Listen!"
Krull tilted his head, straining to hear. The sound of a muted roar over-riding the night breeze came to his ears; it grew louder, the noise of spitting motors, and he realized he was listening to the voices of torps boring along the surface of the lagoon. He swung in the direction of the sound in a futile effort to see, then whirled toward the hermit.
"Hurry."
"They're nearer to the reef than we are." They hurriedly positioned and checked their masks and Cominger said: "We'll ride the surface to the reef, then we'll have to go under. It'll be slower but you coul
dn't hang on in the waves."
Krull nodded, anxious to get started. He had hoped they could ride the surface all the way out but the hermit was right; the waves would rip him loose. Cominger positioned the torp and kicked the starter. The engine barked to life and spat angrily for a moment before settling into a steady roar. He laid his body lengthwise on the sleek hull, grasped the steering bar and hooked his feet through the end stirrups, then motioned Krull to hang on. The agent checked his face mask, slanted his body down and hooked his arms and legs around the hermit's, hoping the swirl of water wouldn't tear him loose.
Cominger gave a hand signal, cut in the drive lever, and the torp moved sluggishly into the lagoon and began picking up speed. Water sloshed against Knoll's body and the stars became blurry lights swimming across his faceplate. He tried to catch a sign of Shevach's torps but they were lost, the sounds of their motors masked by the roar of the powerful engine under him. They cut across the lagoon at an angle toward the break in the reef, picking up speed in the smooth water despite the double load.
Shevach would beat him.
No, he couldn'tl But he would. Okay, he'd take it from there. Just let him get to the rock.
They passed Paha Jon's yellow-sailed outrigger and the torp began pitching in the swells rolling in through the narrow mouth of the reef. Krull clung to the hermit desperately. Water smashed against his faceplate and his body yawed from side to side. The break in the reef rushed toward them, then fell off on either side as they breached the open sea. A wall of water smashed against him and the blurry stars vanished; Cominger had dived the torp beneath the surface.
They rushed through the black night of the subsea with water tearing at their bodies. Krull's arm and leg muscles ached from his tight hold and he shivered in the colder ocean water. A leg muscle began to cramp. He flexed it but the muscle gripped spasmodically, becoming a hot pain. The noise of the engine and the swirling waters drummed against his ears with a tickling sensation. He strained to see ahead, fearful his companion would smash into a submerged rock.
But—no! Cominger was too certain; he drove the torp through the ebony depths at full speed with the certainty of a pilot bringing a ship to safe anchorage. He neither slowed nor deviated; clearly he knew every inch of the sea as well by night as by day. Knew every inch?
It struck him then that Cominger hadn't bothered to ask questions. He had merely said, I'll take you.
The hermit was delivering him into the hands of the outlaws. Cominger, the hermit—the man with the torp. Only it was Cominger, the contact man for the conspirators. He clung to his back and debated. He could lack free and swim to the reef but he'd be no better"off than before; Shevach would still grab the glory and he'd be branded a public enemy. No, let Cominger deliver him; he'd pull the net closed and snare him with the rest of them. Just now he hadn't the slightest idea how he'd go about it but, once in the grotto, he'd figure a way, he savagely promised himself. He couldn't come this far and fail.
The torp slanted downward and the pressure on his ears increased. A beam shot out from the torp, licked across the looming faces of ocean-bottom rocks and waving fronds and blacked out again. The hermit moved the speed lever and the torp slowed, began swinging in a wide half-circle, dropping lower in the velvet water. He periodically flicked the beam on and off, steering through a stone jungle. Krull felt the torp losing speed, swinging; the beam came on again and it seemed as if they must surely ram the base of an undersea cliff. At the last instant the hermit dived it toward the base of the rock bastions; they shot into a narrow tunnel whose walls glowed iridescent under the glow of the beam. The tunnel slanted upward; the hermit gave the torp a burst of power, climbed, leveled off and cut the engine.
Krull felt his body emerge from the water. The torp jarred against sand and he struggled to his feet, staring into the muzzle of a submachine gun. Gordon Gullfin's flat face leered at him from the other end.
"Well, look who's here . . . just in time for the party."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Krull froze at the tableau that met his eyes. He was standing knee-deep in water in a black chamber illuminated by a bluish light emanating from some unseen source. The floor was a smooth rocky shelf which retreated and became lost in shadow. The stone walls, floor and ceiling formed a fantastic stage peopled by immobile manikins, garish in the blue light.
Yargo! The identity of the actors struck him with full force. Ben Yargo, Jan, and the short slim Foxhill were huddled in a group off to one side, with a woman whose face was familiar despite her swim attire. Eve Mallon! He was startled until he remembered the rumor she was Yar-go's mistress. Now they stood, dripping in swim gear, frozen into momentary immobility.
Ivan Shevach, flanked by two swarthy men armed to the hilt, stood a few yards beyond Gullfin's shoulder; behind them towered the lean skeleton of Peter Merryweather, the Searchmaster.
A few yards beyond, Martin Jonquil stood alone.
Off to one side, Anna Malroon—thin and wet and shaking with cold—watched him with tragic eyes. He captured the scene in a flash. Gullfin's voice boomed again.
The tableau was magically broken.
"Over there." He waved the gun menacingly. "Both of you over by Yargo."
Krull stood his ground. "I'm an agent of police. I'm here to enforce the law."
"I'm the law," Gullfin snarled. "Get moving—both of you."
"Max Krull is not one of us," a voice said. Krull looked up. The speaker was Yargo. So, the Prime Thinker was one of the conspirators; and Jan, Foxhill, and Eve Mallon of the Council of Six. He wasn't surprised.
"He dies anyway," Shevach cut in icily. He smiled balefully at Krull. "You won't get out of this one so easily . . . esperl"
"Sentence without due process of law? I'm shocked," Yar-go mocked. Shevach regarded him scornfully.
"You talk about law—you, who rigged the election with that phoney Alexander test?"
Yargo didn't flinch. He stared at the Manager for a long minute before answering, "True, but I didn't do it for my own self-gain."
"No?" It was Sheyach's turn to mock.
"No, I did it for this." His hand swept toward the rear of the grotto. "I had to insure that the work would be finished. Fortunately, it has been."
If Krull were startled, he hid it. Shevach merely arched his brow. "Finished?"
"You might kill us, here, but you can't stop what's beyond this grotto, Shevach."
"I didn't intend to stop your work, Yargo." The Manager smiled thinly. "I merely intend to take it over, and will, thanks to the young lady who tipped us in Sydney, then met us at Abiang and led us here." He nodded toward Anna. Krull was startled but didn't bother to deny the charge; the girl's face gave him the truth. She, like Jonquil, had played both ends. Why?
"She betrayed you, too," Shevach added, looking vindictively at Yargo, "including the fact that your mistress had fled here with you."
Yargo returned his look calmly, without answering. Jan's face was white, frightened, but Eve Mallon stood straight, a whimsical smile on her hps.
"She must have been a member of the conspiracy to have known so much," Shevach resumed. "Therefore she dies."
"No," Krull exploded.
"Ah, the lover," Shevach sneered disdainfully.
"You're wrong, Shevach." The soft voice of Martin Jonquil was a velvet note tinged with death. "You've miscalculated." Krull stared at him in surprise. A moment before, the Inspector apparently had been unarmed. Now he held a wicked-looking automatic with its black muzzle centered on the Manager's breast.
"I came to save the conspiracy."
The Manager's face turned white and he nervously bit his thin lip and tried to form words. None came. The silence was heavy.
Wham! Wham! Krull heard the bullets thud into the Inspector's body; he staggered, dropped to one knee, slipped backward to the floor, his dead eyes staring terribly toward the blue-black ceiling.
Peter Merryweather grinned amiably, bringing the concealed gun into view. A wis
p of smoke curled upward from the barrel.
"Read it in his mind," he said pleasantly. He smiled at the dead agent's body. "Fool."
"No matter. He would have died anyway." Shevach's voice rose to a hard rasp. "I almost wish you could live, Yargo. You'd see how a real ruler operates."
"You didn't intend to smash the conspiracy. You merely intended to use the power for your own means."
"Certainly," Shevach snapped, "do you take me for a fool? I agree with you that we need atomic power, Yargo, and now—thanks to your blundering conspiracy—I have it. But not for the stars. That's for fools and dreamers . . ."
"You would enslave the Earth?" Krull cut in.
"I'll rule the Earth, if that's what you mean." His eyes gleamed triumphantly. "I'll rule it for my lifetime, an emperor . . . pass it to my heirs. I'll make the miserable LIQ's and MIQ's . . ." He cut off whatever he was going to say and stepped back, breathing heavily. His hps compressed tightly and he snarled, "Kill these scum!"
"Max!" Anna's scream rang terribly in the grotto, reverberating from wall to wall. "Remember what I told you."
Gullfin snapped the submachine gun up, grinning viciously, and his finger came back on the trigger.
"Hold it!" Shevach snapped. Gullfin stopped, bewildered, glancing from Krull to his chief. Shevach disregarded him and turned to the shaking girl. "Maybe it's something I should know. What did you tell Krull that's so important?"
Anna didn't reply. She looked at Krull. Her wan face was filled with anguish, and her eyes were enormous limpid pools.
He peeped her.
A thought screamed in her mind.
Screamed, jolted him, numbed him with its force.
"What did you tell Krull?" The Manager's words jerked him back to reality.
Anna pulled herself together with difficulty, staring at the Manager with large tragic eyes. When she spoke, her voice was so soft Krull could scarcely hear her.
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