by Various
"Lucky, she says! We're marooned here. Marooned--with a killer."
Before the widow Moriarity could defend her choice of words, if she was going to defend them, House Bartock came into the rear lounge, where the entire symphony and its chaperone was located. They would have locked the door, of course; they had locked it ever since they had learned who Bartock was. But the door, buckled and broken, had been one of the casualties of the crash-landing.
"You," Bartock said.
He meant Jane Cummings.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. We're going outside."
"Out--side?"
"That's what I said. Let's get a move on."
Jane Cummings didn't move.
The widow Moriarity came between her and Bartock. "If you must take anyone, take me," she said bravely.
"The girl."
Still the widow Moriarity didn't move.
House Bartock balled his fist and hit her. Three of the girls caught her as she fell. None of them tried to do anything about Bartock, who had levelled his blaster at Jane Cummings.
Trembling, she went down the companionway with him.
A fierce cold wind blew as they opened the airlock door.
* * * * *
It looked like a sea-serpent floundering in the snow.
Only, it was caught in the act of floundering, like an excellent candid shot of a sea-serpent floundering in snow.
Its movements were too slow for Mayhem's eyes to register.
Which meant, he realized gratefully, that he hadn't begun to slow down yet.
He had to be careful, though. If he were Bartock he would make immediately for the scout-ship. It would be his only hope.
Realizing this, Mayhem had gone through deep snow for what he judged to be fifteen minutes, until he had reached a spine of rock protruding from the snow. Then he had doubled back, now leaving no footprints, along the spine. He was waiting in the first low range of hills not four hundred yards from the scout-ship, his blaster ready. When Bartock prowled into view, Mayhem would shout a warning. If Bartock didn't heed it, Mayhem would shoot him dead.
It seemed like an airtight plan.
And it would have been, except for two things. First, Bartock had a hostage. And second, Pluto-time was beginning to act on Mayhem.
He realized this when he looked at the sea-serpent again. The long neck moved with agonizing slowness, the great gray green bulk of the monster, sixty feet long, shifted slowly, barely perceptibly, in the snow. Mountains of powdery snow moved and settled. The spade-shaped head pointed at Mayhem. The tongue protruded slowly, hung suspended, forked and hideous, then slowly withdrew.
The neck moved again, ten feet long, sinuous. And faster.
Faster? Not really.
Mayhem was slowing down.
* * * * *
Then he saw Bartock and the girl.
They were close together. Bartock held her arm. Walking toward the scout-ship, they were too far away and too close together for Mayhem to fire. Bartock would know this and wouldn't heed any warning.
So Mayhem didn't give any warning. He left the spine of rock and rushed down through the snow toward the space-bound coffin.
A low rumble of sound broke the absolute stillness.
It was the monster, and now that his own hearing had slowed down, Mayhem was able to hear the slower cycles of sound. How much time had really passed? He didn't know. How much time did he have left before death came swiftly and suddenly because he had been too long in his temporary body? He didn't know that either. He sprinted toward the scout-ship. At least it felt like he was sprinting. He didn't know how fast he was really moving. But the sea-serpent creature was coming up behind him, faster. No place near what would have been its normal apparent speed, but faster. Mayhem, his breath coming raggedly through his mouth, ran as fast as was feasible.
So did Bartock and the girl.
It was Bartock, spotting Mayhem on the run, who fired first. Mayhem fell prone as the raw zing of energy ripped past. The sea-serpent-like-creature behind him bellowed.
And reared.
It didn't look like a sea-serpent any longer. It looked like a dinosaur, with huge solid rear limbs, small forelimbs, a great head with an enormous jaw--and speed.
Now it could really move.
Subjectively, time seemed normal to Mayhem. Your only basis was subjective: time always seemed normal. But Mayhem knew, as he got up and ran again, that he was now moving slower than the minute hand on a clock. Slower ... as objective time, as measured in the solar system at large, sped by.
He tripped as the creature came behind him. The only thing he could do was prop up an elbow in the snow and fire. Raw energy ripped off the two tiny forelimbs, but the creature didn't falter. It rushed by Mayhem, almost crushing him with the hind limbs, each of which must have weighed a couple of tons. It lumbered toward Bartock and Jane Cummings.
Turning and starting to get up, Mayhem fired again.
His blaster jammed.
Then the bulk of the monster cut off his view of Bartock, the girl and the scout-ship. He heard the girl scream. He ran toward them.
Jane Cummings had never been so close to death. She wanted to scream. She thought all at once, hysterically, she was a little girl again. If she screamed maybe the terrible apparition would go away. But it did not go away. It reared up high, as high as a very tall tree, and its fangs were hideous.
Bartock, who was also frightened, raised his blaster, fired, and missed.
Then, for an instant, Jane thought she saw someone running behind the monster. He had a blaster too, and he lifted it. When he fired, there was only a clicking sound. Then he fired again.
Half the monster's bulk disappeared and it collapsed in the snow.
That was when Bartock shot the other man.
Mayhem felt the stab of raw energy in his shoulder. He spun around and fell down, his senses whirling in a vortex of pain. Dimly he was aware of Bartock's boots crunching on the snow.
They fired simultaneously. Bartock missed.
And collapsed with a searing hole in his chest. He was dead before he hit the snow.
The girl went to Mayhem. "Who--who are you?"
"Got to get you back to the ship. No time to talk. Hurry."
"But you can't walk like that. You're badly hurt. I'll bring help."
"... dangerous. I'll take you."
He'd take her, flirting with death. Because, for all he knew, his time on Pluto, objectively, had already totalled forty-eight hours. If it did, he would never live to get off Pluto. Once his thirty days were up, he would die. Still, there might be danger from other animals between the scout-ship and Mozart's Lady, and he couldn't let the girl go back alone. It was almost ludicrous, since she had to help him to his feet.
He staggered along with her, knowing he would never make it to Mozart's Lady and back in time. But if he left her, she was probably doomed too. He'd sacrifice his life for hers....
They went a hundred yards, Mayhem gripping the blaster and advancing by sheer effort of will. Then he smiled, and began to laugh. Jane thought he was hysterical with pain. But he said: "We're a pair of bright ones. The scout-ship."
Inside, it was very small. They had to lie very close to each other, but they made it. They reached Mozart's Lady.
Mayhem didn't wait to say good-bye. With what strength remained to him, he almost flung the girl from the scout-ship. The pain in his shoulder was very bad, but that wasn't what worried him. What worried him was the roaring in his ears, the vertigo, the mental confusion as his elan drifted, its thirty days up, toward death.
He saw the girl enter Mozart's Lady. He blasted off, and when the space-bound coffin pierced Pluto's heavyside layer, he called the Hub.
The voice answered him as if it were mere miles away, and not halfway across a galaxy: "Good Lord, man. You had us worried! You have about ten seconds. Ten seconds more and you would have been dead."
Mayhem was too tired to care. Then he felt a wrenchi
ng pain, and all at once his elan floated, serene, peaceful, in limbo. He had been plucked from the dying body barely in time, to fight mankind's lone battle against the stars again, wherever he was needed ... out beyond Pluto.
Forever? It wasn't impossible.
* * *
Contents
SPIES DIE HARD!
By Arnold Marmor
Earth's espionage ring was a headache, so the Martian Security Chief offered ten thousand credits for a key agent. But even for a price--
"This man is a spy for Earth," a voice droned, as the telecaster vibrated and a photo of Harry Horn flashed on the screen. "Ten thousand credits for this man, dead or alive. Contact Lazar of the Security Police. Harry Horn. Thirty-four, five feet, eleven inches, one hundred and seventy-two pounds."
Lynn Brickel snapped off the humming machine. She frowned. Horn had been high in the Martian Security Police, one of Lazar's top men. Now Horn turned out to be a spy for Earth. Why hadn't she been told? Was Green losing his trust in her? Hadn't she helped McLean and Sanderson escape from Mars?
Her short tunic shimmered as she began to pace the floor. She stopped short as a hum splashed through the room. She went quickly to the door and pressed a red button on the wall.
But the vibration of the elevator did not reach her ears. Puzzled, she opened the door, stepped into the marble hall. She shrugged, started to return to her apartment when the sound of footsteps on the stairs halted her. She waited.
He came into view. Harry Horn. There was no mistaking his face. It had flashed on and off the telecaster throughout the day.
"Brickel?" he said, coming up to her.
His white coveralls were spotted with grime. There was a dark bruise on his right cheek.
"Yes," she said.
"I'm Harry Horn."
"I know."
"You've got to help me." His voice was urgent, pleading. He brushed past her, into her room. She walked in after him, shut and locked the door, leaned her back against it.
"You can't stay here," she said.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm alone."
He went through the apartment, returned to the front room. "I had to make sure." He sank into the low divan, covered his face with his hands.
She walked toward him. "You can't stay here," she repeated.
He looked up at her, his eyes frightened. "Do you have any idea of what Lazar will do to me once he gets his fat hands around my throat? He won't kill me right away."
"Why come to me?"
"You can help me."
"What can I do?"
"You can help me get away. A turbo-engine space ship. That's all I need. It's small and fast."
"But why come to me? You haven't explained."
"You helped McLean and Sanderson."
"How do you know this?"
"We're both in the same organization but not in the same unit. The leader of my unit instructed me to go to you."
"I see. Who is your leader?"
"I can't tell you. You know that. I wouldn't ask you your leader's name."
* * * * *
Lynn shrugged slim shoulders. "It wouldn't make any difference. He is not stationed on Mars."
Horn jumped to his feet. "You will help me?"
"If I can."
"Can you get me the ship?"
"I suppose. But we'll have to wait for night. It is dangerous to do anything now. Ten thousand credits. Lazar wants you awful bad. He offered five for both McLean and Sanderson."
"I was very close to Lazar in the Security Police. I know too much."
"We all make mistakes."
"I envy your logic. But I can't see it that way. I was considered too good an agent to make a mistake."
"It's too late to cry over it now. When it is dark I'll contact--a friend--and have the space ship ready."
Horn grinned. "You're still not sure of me?"
"It isn't that. But you don't belong to my unit. We can't name names to outsiders."
"You're right, of course. You've been well trained."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes."
She set food in front of him and watched him eat.
"What is Lazar like?" she asked. "I have heard of him."
"Cruel," he said. "A sadist. Death is the easy way out when you're in Lazar's hands."
"It will soon be dark," she said.
He stood up, his hunger satisfied. "Tell me," he said, "was it difficult getting Sanderson and McLean out of Mars?"
"No," she said. "Not difficult at all."
"Good." He went to the interphone. He dialed, spoke, "You may come up now."
"What are you doing?" her face paled.
He turned to her, smiling. "Lazar was wondering how Sanderson and McLean escaped. You were on the master list of suspects. I was waiting for you to confess."
Lynn stiffened. "It--it was a trick."
"That's right, Brickel. Too bad. You're too pretty to die."
"That--that was a message to Lazar."
"Yes. He'll be here shortly."
Lynn slipped her hand in the pocket of her tunic, brought out a small blaster.
"Don't be a fool," Horn said. "Maybe you'll be spared. Why take your life? Just tell all you know?"
Lynn smiled. "I wasn't thinking of taking my life. But yours."
Horn frowned. "Don't be an idiot." He advanced toward her.
Lynn shook her head slowly. "Now it's my turn to be clever."
Horn's face went wild. "You can't escape Lazar! Listen to me--"
She blasted him.
* * * * *
Lynn opened the door.
Lazar stood there, fat and ugly. There were two men of the Security Police with him.
"Come in," she invited.
They came in. She shut the door. Lazar looked down at the dead Harry Horn.
"You said dead or alive," Lynn reminded Lazar. "You owe me ten thousand credits."
"What happened?" Lazar snapped at her. His flesh-bedded eyes studied her.
"He came to me for help. I had to bide my time. I told him I'd help him. I was waiting for the chance to get to you. He was by the interphone a few minutes ago. It was the chance I needed. I pulled my blaster, covered him. He made a dash for freedom so I had to kill him."
"This is crazy," one of the men said. "Horn must have had her confession. But now what do we do for evidence?"
"Shut up!" Lazar snapped.
"Your word is good, isn't it, Lazar?" Lynn said.
"What do you mean?"
"The ten thousand credits. As a loyal citizen I've earned them."
"You'll get your credits," Lazar snarled, frustration in his eyes.
"I know I will," Lynn said, smiling.
* * *
Contents
BEYOND PANDORA
by Robert J. Martin
The ideal way to deal with a pest--any menace--is, of course, to make it useful to you....
The doctor's pen paused over the chart on his desk, "This is your third set of teeth, I believe?"
His patient nodded, "That's right, Doctor. But they were pretty slow coming in this time."
The doctor looked up quizzically, "Is that the only reason you think you might need a booster shot?"
"Oh, no ... of course not!" The man leaned forward and placed one hand, palm up, on the desk. "Last year I had an accident ... stupid ... lost a thumb." He shrugged apologetically, "It took almost six months to grow back."
Thoughtfully, the doctor leaned back in his chair, "Hm-m-m ... I see." As the man before him made an involuntary movement toward his pocket, the doctor smiled, "Go on, smoke if you want to." Picking up the chart, he murmured, "Six months ... much too long. Strange we didn't catch that at the time." He read silently for a few moments, then began to fill out a form clipped to the folder. "Well, I think you probably are due for another booster about now. There'll have to be the usual tests. Not that there's much doubt ... we like to be certain."
The middle-
aged man seemed relieved. Then, on second thought, he hesitated uneasily, "Why? Is there any danger?"
Amusement flickered across the doctor's face, turned smoothly into a reassuring half-smile. "Oh, no. There's absolutely no danger involved. None at all. We have tissue-regeneration pretty well under control now. Still, I'm sure you understand that accurate records and data are very necessary to further research and progress."
Reassured, the patient thawed and became confidential, "I see. Well, I suppose it's kinda silly, but I don't much like shots. It's not that they hurt ... it's just that I guess I'm old-fashioned. I still feel kinda 'creepy' about the whole business." Slightly embarrassed, he paused and asked defensively, "Is that unusual?"
The doctor smiled openly now, "Not at all, not at all. Things have moved pretty fast in the past few years. I suppose it takes people's emotional reactions a while to catch up with developments that, logically, we accept as matter of fact."
He pushed his chair back from the desk, "Maybe it's not too hard to understand. Take 'fire' for example: Man lived in fear of fire for a good many hundred-thousand years--and rightly so, because he hadn't learned to control it. The principle's the same; First you learn to protect yourself from a thing; then control it; and, eventually, we learn to 'harness' it for a useful purpose." He gestured toward the man's cigarette, "Even so, man still instinctively fears fire--even while he uses it. In the case of tissue-regeneration, where the change took place so rapidly, in just a generation or so, that instinctive fear is even more understandable--although quite as unjustified, I assure you."
The doctor stood up, indicating that the session was ending. While his patient scrambled to his feet, hastily putting out his cigarette, the physician came around the desk. He put his hand on the man's shoulder, "Relax, take it easy--nothing to worry about. This is a wonderful age we live in. Barring a really major accident, there's no reason why you shouldn't live at least another seventy-five years. After all, that's a very remarkable viral-complex we have doing your 'repair' work."
