The Big Jump

by Leigh Brackett

  “Us?” said Comyn.

  “I told you maybe we’d go to the Moon.”

  “Don’t I have a choice in the matter?”

  “Don’t kid me, Comyn. Right in the middle of the Cochrane stronghold? You’re crazy to get there.”

  He leaned over her, putting his hand on the smooth ridge of muscles where her neck curved into her shoulder. It quivered slightly, and he tightened his fingers.

  “I don’t like having my mind made up for me,” he said. “Not too fast.”

  “Neither do I,” said Sydna, and put her hands up alongside his head. Her nails bit suddenly into the flesh behind his ears, pulling his head down. She was laughing.

  After a while he straightened up and said, “You play rough.”

  “I grew up with three brothers. I had to play rough or not play.”

  They looked at each other in the half dark; they were hot-eyed, bristling, between anger and excitement. Then she said slowly, almost viciously:

  “You’ll come because there’s something up there you’ll want to see.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer. Quite suddenly, she had begun to shiver, her hands clasped tight together in her lap.

  “Buy me a drink, Comyn.”

  “Haven’t you had enough?”

  “There isn’t enough in New York.”

  “What have you people got now, up there on the Moon?”

  “Progress. Expansion. Glory. The stars.” She swore, still quivering. “Why did Ballantyne have to make his damned trip, Comyn? Weren’t nine worlds enough room to make trouble in? Trouble. That’s what we’ve got up there. That’s why I came to Earth.”

  She lifted those wide brown shoulders and let them fall. “I’m a Cochrane and I’m stuck with it.” She paused, looking at Comyn. “So are you—stuck with it, I mean. Would you rather be on the outside, getting shot at—or on the inside?”

  “Getting shot at?”

  “I can’t guarantee you anything.”

  “Hm.”

  “Oh, run away if you want to, Comyn.” She had got over her shakes, and he wondered if the champagne might not have been responsible for them. It seemed to be coming over her in a wave now. Or else she was talking that way to duck any more questions. “I’m sleepy. I don’t care what you do.”

  And she went to sleep, or seemed to, with her head against him and his arm around her. She was no lightweight, but the long lithe curves of her body were pleasant to follow. He held them, thinking of all the many ways in which this might be a trap. Or was Miss Sydna Cochrane just a little crazy? They said all the Cochranes were a little crazy; they’d been saying that ever since old Jonas had built the ridiculous lunar palace toward which he was now heading.

  The car was bearing them on toward the spaceport. He could still back out, but he’d have to do it fast.

  No. I can’t back out, thought Comyn. Not now.

  He had only one chance to find out about Paul Rogers, and that was to bluff information out of the Cochranes—if he could. He also only had one chance to maybe get himself on a little solider ground, and that was by the same method. He would never get a better crack at trying.

  A hard-boiled little lamb going to talk a lot of lions out of their dinner, Comyn told himself grimly. “Oh, well, if I’m stepping into it, it’s in nice company.”

  He settled back, patting Miss Cochrane into a more comfortable position, and wished he knew two things: who had paid the boy with the bad teeth to kill him, and whether this ace in the hole he was going to bluff the Cochranes with might not turn out to be just a low spade after all—a spade suitable for grave digging.

  They went through the spaceport and into the glittering Cochrane yacht, as though through a well-oiled machine. When the yacht had cleared, Sydna went sleepily away to change and left Comyn staring with increasing distaste at the blank, enlarging lunar face ahead.

  Why the devil would anyone want to build a showplace out on this skull’s head? They said old Jonas had done it so that the Cochrane wealth and power would be forever in the eyes of all Earth, and that he rarely left it. The old pirate must have a screw loose.

  The yacht swept in toward the Lunar Apennines, showing a magnificent view of the sharp and towering peaks in the full blaze of day. Luna, he thought, could still beat anything in the Solar System for sheer scenery, if your nerves could stand it. The great ringed plain Archimedes showed its encircling fangs far off to the left, and ahead, on a plateau halfway up that naked mountain wall, he caught a flash of reflected sunlight.

  “That’s the dome,” said Sydna. “We’re almost there.”

  She didn’t sound happy about it. Comyn glanced at her. She had finally come back, wearing white slacks and a silk shirt. She was still fixing her make-up.

  “If you don’t like the place, why do you ever go there?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Jonas won’t leave it. And we have to show up every so often. He’s still head of the family.”

  Comyn looked at her more closely. “You’re scared,” he said. “Scared of something up here.”

  She laughed. “I don’t scare easy.”

  “I believe that,” he said. “But you’re afraid now. Of what? Why did you run away from here to New York to get tight?”

  She looked at him somberly. “Maybe you’re about to find out. Or maybe I’m just leading you to the slaughter.”

  He put his hands up on either side of her neck, not tenderly.

  “Are you?”

  “Could be, Comyn.”

  “I’ve got a feeling,” he said, “that one of these days I’ll be sorry I didn’t break this for you right here.”

  “We may both be,” she said, and then surprised him when he kissed her, for there was panic in the way she pressed against him.

  He didn’t like it at all, and he liked the whole thing less and less as the yacht swooped smoothly down to that high plateau above the Mare Imbrium. He saw the curve of the enormous pressure dome rising up like a smooth glass mountain flashing in the sun, and then a magnetic tug had hooked onto their ship and they were being handled smoothly into an airlock. Massive doors closed behind them, and Comyn thought, Well, here I am—and it’s up to the Cochranes whether I ever leave or not.

  A few minutes later he was driving with Sydna through rioting gardens that covered several acres, toward a pile of masonry he had seen pictured many times before: an old man’s arrogant monument to himself, insanely set upon a dead world. The stark structure of native lunar rock had been designed by a master architect to match the lunar landscape. The result was striking, weird—and, he had to admit, beautiful. The lines of the buildings lifted and swept and curved as boldly as the peaks that loomed above them.

  He followed Sydna out and went up some broad and shallow steps to a portico of tremendous simplicity. Sydna pushed open the great doors that were made of a dully-gleaming alloy.

  The hall inside was high and austere, flooded with filtered lunar sunlight, and softened with hangings, rugs and a few priceless oddments from all over the Solar System. The vault of white stone flung back a whispering echo as they moved. Sydna walked halfway along its length, going slower and slower. Then she turned suddenly around as though she wanted to run back. Comyn took her by the shoulder and asked again:

  “What are you afraid of? I want to know!”

  The echoes of his voice whispered back and forth between the walls. She shrugged, not looking at him, trying to keep her voice light.

  “Don’t you know every castle has a Thing living in its cellar? Well, we’ve got one here, too, now, and it’s a beaut.”

  “What kind of a thing?” demanded Comyn.

  “I think,” said Sydna, “I think…it’s Ballantyne.”

  FIVE

  The high vault muttered Ballantyne in a thousand tiny voices, and Comyn’s grip had become a painful thing on Sydna’s shoulders.

  “What do you mean, it’s Ballantyne? He’s dead; I saw him die!”

  Sydna’s ey
es met his now, steadily, for a long minute, and it seemed to Comyn that a cold wind blew in that closed place, cold as the spaces between the stars.

  “They haven’t let me go down there,” she said, “and they won’t talk to me about it, but you can’t keep any secrets here. The echoes are too good. And I can tell you another thing. I’m not the only one that’s scared.”

  Something caught hold of Comyn’s heart and began to shake it. Sydna’s face turned indistinct and distant and he was back again in a little room on Mars, looking at the shadow of a fear that was new under the familiar Sun…

  “Surprise,” said Sydna, in a cool light voice with barbs on it. “I’ve brought a friend of yours.”

  Comyn started and turned. William Stanley was standing in the doorway at the far end of the hall, a smile of welcome turning dark and ugly on his face. Comyn took his hands away from Sydna.

  Stanley shot him one blazing look and then turned on Sydna. “Of all the hen-brained female tricks! What does it take to make you grow up, Sydna? The end of the world?”

  “Why, Willy!” She looked at him in innocent amazement. “Did I do wrong?”

  Stanley’s face was now absolutely white. “No,” he said, answering his own question and not hers, “not even the end of the world would do it. You’d still be busy impressing everyone with how devastatingly cute you are. But I don’t think that anybody is going to find this one the least bit funny.” He jerked his head at Comyn. “Turn around. You’re going back to Earth.”

  Sydna was smiling, but her eyes had that lambency that Comyn remembered. She seemed to be much interested in Stanley. “Say that over again. That last bit.”

  Stanley repeated slowly. “I said, this man is going back to Earth.”

  Sydna nodded. “You’re getting better at it, Willy, but you’re still not good enough.”

  “Good enough at what?”

  “Giving orders like a Cochrane.” She turned her back on him, not insultingly but as though he just wasn’t there.

  In a voice that had trouble getting out, Stanley said, “We’ll see about this.”

  He strode away. Sydna did not look after him. Neither did Comyn. He had forgotten Stanley after the first minute. I think—I think it’s Ballantyne. How long could a thing go on, how ugly could it get?

  He demanded harshly, “Just what are you trying to give me?”

  “It’s hard to take, isn’t it? Maybe you know now why I went down to New York.”

  “Listen,” said Comyn. “I was with Ballantyne. His heart had stopped. They tried to get it going again, but it was no use. I saw him. He was dead.”

  “Yes,” said Sydna, “I know. That’s what makes it so sticky. His heart’s still stopped. He’s dead, but not quite.”

  Comyn swore at her with a savagery born of fear. “How can a man be dead, and—How do you know? You said you hadn’t been let down to see him. How—”

  “She listens at keyholes,” said a new voice. A man was coming down the hall toward them, his heels clicking angrily on the stone floor. “Listens,” he said, “and then talks. Can’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut? Can’t you ever stop making trouble?”

  His face was Sydna’s face all over again but it was without the beauty, high-boned and dark. His eyes had the same brightness, but it was a cruel thing now, and the lines around his mouth were deep. He looked as though he wanted to take Sydna in his two hands and break her.

  She didn’t give any ground. “Throwing a tantrum isn’t going to change things, Pete, so you might as well not.” Her own eyes had fired up, and her mouth was stubborn. “Comyn, this is Peter Cochrane, my brother. Pete, this is…”

  The bitter dark eyes flickered briefly over Comyn. “I know, I’ve seen him before.” He returned his attention to Sydna. Somewhere from the background Stanley spoke, reiterating his demand that Comyn be sent away. Nobody noticed him. Comyn said:

  “Where?”

  “On Mars. You wouldn’t remember. You weren’t feeling well at the time.”

  A vague memory of a voice speaking beyond a thick red haze returned to Comyn. “So it was you who broke up the party.”

  “The boys were enjoying their work too much. You were liable to be ruined before you talked.” He swung around on Comyn. “Are you ready to talk now?”

  Comyn stepped closer to him. “Is Ballantyne dead?”

  Peter Cochrane hesitated. The wire-drawn look deepened, and a muscle began to twitch under his cheekbone. “You and your big mouth,” he muttered to Sydna. “You—”

  “All right,” she answered furiously, “so you’re mad. The hell with you. You and the whole Cochrane tribe aren’t getting anywhere on this, and you know it. I thought Comyn might have the answer.”

  Comyn repeated, “Is Ballantyne dead?”

  Peter said, after a moment, “I don’t know.”

  Comyn closed his fists hard and took a deep breath. “Let’s put it another way, then. Dead or alive, I want to see him.”

  “No. No, you don’t—but you won’t know it till afterward.” He studied Comyn with a hard penetrating look. “What are you after, Comyn? A chance to cut in?”

  Comyn gestured toward Stanley. “I told him, already. I told your boys on Mars. I want to find out what happened to Paul Rogers.”

  “Just a noble sentiment of friendship? It’s too thin, Comyn.”

  “More than just friendship,” Comyn said. “Paul Rogers saved my neck, once. He went to bat for me out on Ganymede when he didn’t have to. I’ll tell you about it sometime. The point is, I like to pay my debts. I’m going to find out about him if I have to blow the Cochranes wide open.”

  “You don’t, I take it, like the Cochranes?”

  Comyn said savagely, “Who does? And you’re running true to form now, kicking Ballantyne around like a football, snatching his ship, holding out the log books, trying to sew up the Big Jump—the biggest thing men ever did—like any cheap swindling business deal.”

  “Let’s get things straight,” interrupted Peter harshly. “That ship and its star-drive belong to us. And the log broke off just where we said. And we brought Ballantyne here to try to do something for him, about him—” He broke off, his face quivering slightly as though in involuntary recoil from some shocking memory.

  Comyn felt the chill shadow of the other’s emotion, but he said again, “Are you going to let me see him?”

  “Why should I? Why shouldn’t I just send you back to Earth?”

  “Because,” Comyn said grimly, “you know I know something, and you want to know what.”

  “He doesn’t know anything!” Stanley exclaimed to Peter. “How could he? Ballantyne was in terminal coma and couldn’t talk. He’s bluffing, trying to chisel in.”

  “Maybe,” said Peter Cochrane. “We’ll find out. All right, Comyn. You convince me you know something, and you can see Ballantyne. But I’m making no deals with you beyond that. I’m only one Cochrane, and this concerns all of us. The others won’t be here until this evening, Earth time, and we can fight it out then. Fair enough?”

  Comyn nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Then, what do you know?”

  “Not a lot,” said Comyn. It was time for his one little card, and he had to play it as casually as though he had a fistful behind it. “Not a lot. But I do know there’d be quite a bit of excitement if people thought there was a transuranic world out there.”

  There was a moment of silence. Peter Cochrane did not change expression, but the color drained slowly out of Stanley’s face, leaving it gray. Then Sydna spoke into the silence.

  “He did know. And that’s why somebody tried to kill him.”

  Peter Cochrane looked at her sharply. “That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t be worth a nickel to anybody dead.”

  “Do I get to see Ballantyne now?” Comyn demanded.

  Cochrane turned abruptly. “Yes. You’ve asked for it. Sydna, you stay here. You’ve made enough trouble for one day.”

  “I have every intention of stayin
g here, and I need a drink!” she said.

  Comyn followed Peter Cochrane down the corridor. Stanley went with them. There was a sliding metal door at the end of the corridor, and behind it there was a lift that sank downward into the lunar rock, whining softly. Comyn had begun to sweat, and his shirt stuck to him, coldly damp across his back. His heart was pounding, not steadily, but in irregular bursts that made it hard to breathe. The lines in Peter Cochrane’s face were deep. He looked as though he hadn’t slept for some time. Stanley stood apart from them, withdrawn into his own thoughts. His eyes moved constantly from Comyn to Peter Cochrane and back again. A ridge of muscle showed along his jaw.

  The lift stopped and they got out. There was nothing mysterious about these cellars under the Cochrane castle. They held the pumping plants for air and water, the generators, the mountainous quantities of supplies necessary for maintaining life and luxury in this artificial blister on the face of Luna. The rock floor they walked on quivered to the rhythmic throbbing of the pumps.

  Cochrane moved like a man who was being forced to witness an execution. Comyn thought the man had probably been this way before too often, and he caught the subtle contagion of dread from the dark strained face. Stanley lagged behind them both, his feet scuffing on the smooth rock.

  Peter Cochrane paused before a door. He didn’t look at anyone. He said, “Why don’t you stay out here, Bill?”

  Stanley said, “No.”

  Comyn’s mouth was dry. There was an acrid taste in it, and his nerve ends hurt.

  Peter Cochrane still hesitated, scowling at his hand as he put it up against the door.

  Comyn said, “Come on, come on!” His voice came out rough and no louder than a whisper.

  Cochrane pushed the door open.

  There was a room cut out of the rock. It had been hastily cleared of most of the stores that had been in it, and just as hastily fitted up with things that made it partly a laboratory, partly a hospital, and partly a cell. Strong lights filled it with a naked and pitiless glare. There were two men in it—and something else.

  Comyn recognized the young doctor from the hospital on Mars. He had lost much of his youth. The other man he didn’t know, but the same look of strain and dread was on him. They turned around with the violence that came of overtaxed nerves. They had been startled by the opening of the door. The young doctor looked at Comyn, and his eyes got wide.