by Mike Jurist
"Of course I insist," cried that worthy.
With an even greater sigh, the Commander motioned to the Patrolman. "All right; take Mr. Kenton inside. And I set temporary bail at five hundred Earth dollars."
"Why, that's a ridiculous sum!" screamed Foote. "You might just as well let him go free now."
The Commander turned on him. "Sir," he said sternly, "You've made a legal request for an arrest, and I've legally arrested the accused. But temporary bail is wholly in my discretion. Five hundred dollars."
Kenton grinned, took out a wad of bills. He peeled off the top one. "Here it is!" he said. "I'll make it ten thousand if you'll let me take just one swing at that scum."
"You hear him?" shrilled Foote.
The Commander looked pained, started to speak, when the buzzer sounded. "Hmm! We'll settle this in a moment. Excuse me.
He went to his desk, switched on his screen. It was a confidential screen. No one but he could see who was on it; and neither voice traveled beyond circumscribed limits. All that the others could observe was the expression on the Commander's countenance as he listened and replied into the screen.
A silence fell on the crowded room. The disappointed reporters, who had hoped that Old Fireball would take at least one good poke at Foote, perked up. The Commander's face was at first startled, then intent. He spoke rapidly at intervals, then listened again with the deepest attention. The minutes passed. The atmosphere grew oppressive. Obviously a message of the greatest importance was coming through. The newshawks whispered to one another, poised for a deluge of questions as soon as the conversation had ended. This was their lucky day. First, the incident between Old Fireball and Foote; and now—this still unknown message.
At long last the Commander was finished. He switched off his set, came from behind his desk. His face was strangely set. The reporters crowded around. "Tell us what just came through," they implored. "Come on, be a good fellow."
He disregarded their clamor. He stared peculiarly at old Simeon. He cleared his throat; and the newsmen hushed.
"That message," he said gently, "was from one of our Patrol ships. They got a call from the Flash."
“The Flash!" It seemed as if every throat in the room—with the exception of Foote's—echoed the name. The reporters grabbed for their tablets, began to scribble furiously.
Kenton took a step forward. "My daughter!" he said hoarsely. "Is she all right?"
The Commander shifted his gaze; cleared his throat again. "The message," he said, "came from the radio operator of the Flash. Miss Kenton and . . . er . . . Mr. Dale are on Comet X.
'There was a sensation. Pencils raced. Wow! What a story! Elopers honeymooning on mysterious Comet X!
Foote's features twisted. There was alarm in his eyes. He opened his mouth; clamped it shut with a strangulating effort.
Old Simeon gulped, flushed. For the first time in his life he was at a loss. "Th—then where's the Flash?" he stammered.
"Somewhere between Comet X and Jupiter. The Patrol ship lost contact after Sparks told his story. It seems . . . uh . . . that the radio operator deliberately broke off. A legal offense, I might say; one which might lead to the revocation of his license."
"The ripfaddled blazes with his license!" yelled Simeon. "What story did he tell?"
"A very strange one." The Commander was definitely not looking at anyone in the crowded room. "The Flash landed on the comet, in spite of the Commission's prohibition—another serious penal offense, I might add. But they . . . all . . . found another ship ahead of them. A band of outlaws we've been hunting high and low through space these past few years. Miss Kenton, Mr. Dale and three members of their crew landed some distance away to investigate. While they were gone, the outlaws attacked the Flash. To avoid destruction, Sparks took off."
"And left the others behind?" cried Simeon incredulously. Then a dreadful thought came to him. "Then—then—," he choked, "the pirates have my daughter!"
No one, in the tension of the room, heard Foote's quick sigh of relief, or saw the twisted grin that spread over his countenance.
"As far as Sparks knew," admitted the Commander. He paused a moment; then continued. "But that isn't the end of the story. The Patrol ship, when Sparks broke off abruptly, started for Comet X. On the way they ran into a suspicious craft hurtling in from outer space. They ordered it to stop for inspection. The ship swerved and fired. The Patrol replied and smashed its starboard jet. When they boarded it, they found the outlaws; or rather, what was left of them."
Foote began to slide stealthily along the wall toward the outer entrance. The Commander made a surreptitious signal. The Patrolman walked nonchalantly over to the door, leaned solidly against it, blocking all egress.
"But my daughter!" exclaimed Simeon with feverish impatience.
"That's the most curious part of the whole story. The outlaws we caught were almost inarticulate with fright. They hadn't seen her, or Dale. They admitted attacking the Flash; but swear there was no one besides themselves on the comet. Except—" The Commander paused, looked puzzled. "They kept babbling of some terrific experience; of a world beyond time, of the ghosts of a people dead for millions of years. They sounded insane; but there was no question they had seen something—or thought they saw something. They left their leader and some of their fellows behind, and took off in wild haste."
Foote was saying ingratiatingly to the Patrolman: "Excuse me. I want to go out."
"And," the Commander's voice rose inexorably. "They confessed everything they knew."
"I must get out," gasped Foote frantically. "A message I must send—something urgent."
"Hold that man!" thundered the Commander suddenly. "In the name of the Interplanetary Commission, Jericho Foote, you are under arrest. You are charged with conspiracy to subvert the ends of justice, piracy on the spaceways, grand larceny, assault and battery with deadly weapons and—murder."
Foote, struggling in the grip of the burly Patrolman, screamed: "It ain’t true. It's all a lie. It's a frame-up."
"That remains for a court of justice to decide," the Commander said contemptuously. "Lock him up and—," he added grimly, "there'll be no bail."
The newsmen almost knocked over the Patrolman and his squirming captive in their wild rush to get out and over to the Communications office. This would set the whole System on its collective ear. There had never been a story like this since—since— Only one man was able to finish the analogy properly; and that was only after he had transmitted his story.
The brilliant thought came to him with the third glass of pulla he was imbibing in a neighboring saloon. He shook the empty container at his admiring fellows, swayed a trifle and said somewhat thickly, but with the deepest solemnity: "Yesshir-ree, boys! Thish is th-the greatest story shince—Hector was a pup!"
Back in the now deserted office of the Space Patrol, the Commander said sympathetically to old Simeon: "They must be all right, Mr. Kenton." But there was no conviction in his voice. "I've already ordered a fast Patrol to go out."
Simeon had appeared old and shrunken. Now he started, and the old fire snapped back into him. "Drat your Patrol ships!" he yelled. "I've got the Deimos here. It'll get me there in half the time of one of your space-scows."
"The Deimos? Very well, Mr. Kenton, I'll commandeer it."
Kenton whirled. "You'll do nothing of the sort," he snapped. "If you think you're goin' to keep me from going—l-lar-rumph! But you kin come as my guest," he ended abruptly.
"All right." The Commander didn't want to tangle too hard with Old Fireball. And besides—he himself was a father.
CHAPTER 15
KERRY DALE lifted himself with an effort. Sally was lying down, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Jem and the two crewmen were panting. They had their helmets off. It was easier that way; and, as Kerry had remarked quietly, it didn't matter much now whether the radiations were cumulatively deadly or not.
For the hundredth time they stared up at the maddeningly beautiful spectrum of c
olors that made up the enveloping cloud envelope. For the hundredth time they saw nothing.
"He won't come back!" groaned Jem hopelessly. "He's headin' straight fer Ganymede."
"If'n only we hadda radio set ta contact Sparks," whimpered one of the crewmen.
"Well, we ain’t, Bob," Jem reproved him. "An' there ain’t no use ta keep on harping about it."
Kerry jerked erect. "By God!" he cried. "Bob, you've given me an idea."
They looked at him tiredly. "What idea?" asked Jem. "How to contact Sparks."
"Huh!" grunted Jem. "The thirst's getting you."
But Kerry was already on his feet, rummaging among the equipment which the pirates had abandoned. He came back triumphantly with some lengths of wire. His voice was stronger; his eyes glowed.
"Look!" he said. "Each of us has a communication unit in our helmets, haven't we?"
"Yeah!" growled Jem. "With a sending radius of twenty miles."
"I'm going to step it up."
"How?"
Kerry pointed to the glowing blocks of energy. "There's our
power. Use these wires to hook the block into the circuit." Jem shook his head skeptically. "And blow the whole works
t' smithereens."
"Maybe so; and then again maybe not. We can't lose anything by trying. After all, our power pack emits sub-electron energy. It's of the same order, though on an almost infinitely reduced scale."
Kerry swiftly inserted the ends of two of the wires into his own head set, placed the other ends cautiously on top of the cube of energy.
The wires quivered; the set made sputtering noises; then it exploded.
The men had risen up in their eagerness. Now they subsided with a collective groan.
But Kerry only said: "It lasted for ten seconds or so. Let's try another set."
One after the other, the sets of the four men quivered, made strange noises; and then, after varying intervals, puffed out. "That's that!" said Jem with gloomy finality.
"Oh no it isn't," retorted Kerry. "There's still Sally's set." "Our last one!" protested Jem.
"What good is it otherwise?" asked Kerry with irrefutable logic. He shook the sleeping girl gently. "Sally!"
She woke with a start. "We'll need your helmet, dear," said Kerry.
Without a word she took it off, handed it to him.
The men watched lackadaisically as he tried again. Once more the wires started their little dance; once again the set throbbed and sputtered. But it didn't explode!
A minute passed; then another. Gradually the sputter gave way to a steady hum.
"Eureka!" grinned Kerry, "as some ancient chap by the name of Archimedes was once supposed to have remarked. Now let's see if it's got sufficient radius."
As the others crowded eagerly around, their clogging thirst momentarily forgotten, Kerry spoke into the communicator disk. "Kerry Dale, calling the Flash. Kerry Dale, calling the Flash." Over and over again, monotonously.
The minutes fled. His voice grew hoarse and thick. No answer.
The light died in their eyes. "Ain’t enough radius," groaned Jem.
"Or maybe," added Bob gloomily, "them pirates caught up wi' Sparks."
But Kerry kept up doggedly until his voice gave out. "You try it now, Jem!" he husked.
Jem obeyed without any enthusiasm. A half hour. Forty-five minutes. Then his voice cracked.
Sally took the disk. On and on—until—
Faint but clear came an incredulous voice through the receptor. The voice of Sparks!
"Miss Kenton! For God's sake, is it really you?"
She started to answer—and broke. Kerry grabbed the receptor. "Sparks! This is Kerry Dale. What's your position?" "Glory be! I thought you were all dead. I'm two hours out." "Two hours!" Kerry jumped. "But it's ten hours since you started."
"I've turned back. I won't be able to come too close; the space cannon's still jammed. And those pirates—"
"They've gone, Sparks. Come down at the lake of energy. We're there."
"They're gone? Gee! Then I'm sorry I raised a Patrol ship with a call for help. They said they'd start for the comet right away."
"That's bad!" commented Kerry. Now that help seemed miraculously near he didn't want any Patrol ship on Comet X. "How far away were they?"
"About a million miles 'tother side of Jupiter."
"Which we're approaching at an accelerating clip," thought Kerry. He did some rapid calculations in his head. "It'll take them at least twelve to fourteen hours," he said aloud. "Okay, Sparks, put on maximum speed. We—we're a little thirsty."
"I'm pushing her for all she's got!" cried Sparks jubilantly.
The five castaways did a little solemn dance of joy. "Kerry Dale!" cried Sally, her eyes shining. "You've saved all our lives!"
He grinned at her. "I wouldn't have had the chance if you hadn't pulled that trick on the pirates a while back. But let's get to work."
"Work?" Jem looked blank.
Kerry's voice vibrated as though some of the streaming energy had been absorbed into his system. "I want at least another block of that stuff mined before the Space Patrol gets here. They're likely to arrest us for breaking the Commission order."
"Aha!" ejaculated Jem. "So ye didn't have a legal doodad, Kerry." He shook his head mournfully, as though all his illusions were shattered. "How much time d'ye think they'll give us?"
"I have a 'doodad,' Jem; and I promise you, you won't land in jail. But they'll take us to Ganymede before it can be
straightened out. By that time Comet X will be on its merry way out of our universe again."
"And no one will have any benefit," exclaimed Sally.
"Right! So let's take out as much as we can." Kerry carefully examined the edges of the boiling pool. "Ah! here's where Pyotra was mining. The energy coagulated into a thick crust. Jem, you and your men assemble one of the blast cutters; bring it over here. Quick! We have little enough time!"
It was hard, difficult labor; made still harder by the thirst that clogged their throats and swelled their tongues. But they worked on doggedly, fiercely. Even Sally gave what hand she could.
The blaster was geared to sheer through the heaviest and most resistant metals as though they were yielding cheese. But this stuff was of a hardness and density never before found in the System. They sweated and gritted, and the blaster poured its cutting plane of energy in a steady roar. Yet by the end of two hours they had only penetrated a bare three inches.
They were groggy now. They had to wear their helmets in order to use the glassite windows with their polarized filters. Otherwise the glare would have blinded them. But the communication sets were smashed—except for Sally's—and they lead to work in an eerie silence.
Bob finally staggered away, ripped off his helmet, and sank to the ground. "Sorry, Mr. Dale," he croaked. "I—I can't take it anymore."
Kerry took off his own helmet, said remorsefully: "All right. We'll have to wait until Sparks comes down. He's about due now."
He had barely spoken when a roaring was heard overhead, and the ungainly bulk of the Flash pierced the colorful haze with front rockets blasting to check the ship's flight.
To the castaways, half dead with thirst and exhaustion, the System held no more beautiful sight than the squat, serviceable salvage ship, with its Hobby appendage of Sally's Iris. They set up a feeble cheer as the ship settled with a shuddering bump on the flat metallic surface of the strange little planet; and they staggered toward it as the port slid open.
But Bill and Alf were already running toward them, with containers full of drink pellets and concentrated tablets of food. Not a word was passed until they bad greedily swallowed several of the pellets. As the concentrated balls melted in their mouths and released their bull, of life-giving fluid, a simultaneous sigh of satisfaction rose into the glowing air. Then the tablets followed, as the two men watched with sympathetic eyes.
Kerry took a deep breath. He felt refreshed, restored. Everything was all right now. The ni
ghtmare was passed. Sparks came out; a broad grin on his withered face. It was the first time anyone had ever seen his dour countenance relaxed in a smile. They shook bands all around, solemnly, as people released from the shadow of death.
Then Kerry got down to business again. "Tell me exactly what passed between you and the Patrol," he asked.
The grin wiped from Spark's face. He relapsed into his wonted mournful expression. "I didn't tell 'em much," he said gloomily. "Only that you were stranded here, and trying to fight off a gang of outlaws. They said they'd send help. Then they fired more questions at me, but I shut off communication, turned tail and came scooting right back. Thought we'd have the cannon fixed by that time; but the damned thing is still jammed."
Kerry clapped him cordially on the shoulder. "You did swell, Sparks," be approved. "I won't forget."
But the man refused to be comforted. "They'll take my license away," he prognosticated mournfully. "I've done everything in the book a Class A operator hadn't oughta."
"We'll fix everything up all right," promised Kerry. "That Patrol will be here in about ten hours. I want to get away before they come. I have some . . . um . . . business to attend to in Ganymede; and I don't want to go there under arrest. That means we'll have to work fast. Alf, Bill—you're still fresh. We've started to get out another block of the stuff. It's slow, tedious work, but I want you to carry on. There are the blasters. Jem, swing out the derrick tractors from the Flash and load those two cubes in the hull. Encase them in heavy lead plates, to make sure that the radiation doesn't knock our instruments haywire. Bob and Migs (this was the other member of the crew) will help you. Sparks, get back to your screens and watch out for the Patrol. In the meantime, I'll see what's wrong with the cannon. Now get going."
A pert voice piped up: "And what do I do, Mister Dale?"
He paused in mid-stride. Then be grinned at the girl. Yes, there was something more beautiful than the Flash. "Sally, you're going to bed. You've done enough."
"I'll do nothing of the sort!" she stormed. "I'm not made of egg shells. I'm staying—"
