“I’ll go,” she said bitterly, “but I didn’t know the Federation had sold out to Big Bill Murdock too.”
“Just a minute,” Trent said mildly. “I want to talk to you. Hawkett, take your hand off your gun.”
“She’s nothin’ but a dirty little liar,” Hawkett blazed. His hand remained on his gun. “You’re mixin’ in something big, buddy,” he said harshly, “and it ain’t healthy for you.”
“I said take your hand off that gun,” Trent repeated, but there was something else in his voice now.
Hawkett heard it but he didn’t connect it with Trent’s sloping heavy shoulders and battered fists. His lips smiled.
“So what?” he said tensely.
Trent shrugged and walked toward Hawkett. There was something in his calm unhurried approach that caused Hawkett to lick his lips suddenly. When Trent was within four feet of him, Hawkett jerked his hand from the gun and lunged forward, his ham-like fist lashing out at Trent’s jaw.
The blow landed high on Trent’s cheek. Trent shook his head and stepped inside Hawkett’s arms, his fists driving with wicked rhythm into Hawkett’s body. Hawkett doubled slightly and Trent stepped back. His heavy sloping shoulders snapped around behind a right cross that flicked out like a lightning bolt and landed like a baseball bat against the side of Hawkett’s jaw.
Before Hawkett stopped rolling, Trent turned to the girl, his features relaxing again into their usual pleasantness.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. “What’s wrong here?”
The girl glanced humbly at Hawkett’s recumbent figure.
“I’m sorry about what I said. I—I was upset.”
“Forget it,” Trent said. He wanted to sound more gracious but words weren’t his business. “What’s up? And what’s your name?”
“Gail O’Neil,” the girl answered, reserved again. “I’ll forget the apology as you wish. But you must help us. There are over two hundred miners held prisoner on this asteroid.”
“Prisoner?” Trent echoed.
“YES,” Gail answered, “can’t you see? The ship, the tower and the televise equipment is fenced off from the rest of the asteroid. One guard—Hawkins—remains here. When it starts he’ll save himself with the space ship in the catapult.”
“When what starts?” Trent asked.
“I forgot,” Gail said quickly, “you couldn’t know. For the past six weeks internal pressure has been building up inside Asteroid 13. 13 has a gaseous core and each ounce of ore removed from the crust weakens it. In other words 13 is ready to explode. My father knew this and was killed because of it. Big Bill Murdock refuses to remove the miners and their families until the last ounce of Pelyisium is removed. The men are forced to keep up production because they know they can’t leave until the ore is mined. But 13 won’t last that long. The two hundred lives don’t bother Murdock—it’s just his precious ore.”
“If what you say is true,” Trent said slowly, “I’ll order immediate evacuation. But how do you know so definitely that 13 will explode?”
“By the increasing internal pressure. Please let me inside,” Gail begged, “and I can show you what I mean.”
Trent looked at the door in the fence and then stepped to Hawkett’s inert form, fished through his pocket until he found a ring of keys. In ten seconds more the girl was leading him quickly into the chromealloy office. She stopped before a switchboard covered with tiny rheostats and switches.
“Each switch controls a shaft lid,” she explained. “Now watch that lid to the right of the mooring tower.” With one hand she engaged the switch.
Trent watched the lid rise an inch—two—and then with breathtaking abruptness it snapped all the way open and a gusher of flame and steam shot a hundred yards into the air with a blinding flash.
Quickly Gail disengaged the switch and the lid closed ponderously against the pressure of steam and gas.
“That’s an indication,” Gail said, “of the tremendous pressure building up beneath the thin crust of 13.”
Trent nodded.
“Get the miners together,” he told the girl. “With all their possessions. I’m heading to Venus to see Mr. Murdock. I’ll have a transport back here as soon as possible.”
“Oh that’s wonderful,” Gail breathed. “I’ll—we’ll never be able to thank you as we should.”
“It’s just a job,” Trent said curtly. And then wished he hadn’t.
Gail’s chin rose in the air.
“I won’t forget that again. It’s not the human lives, of course. Just the job.”
Trent started to explain, but suddenly he tensed as the hissing roar of rocket exhausts blasted the silence. He dashed from the office just in time to see a pin point of light disappearing into the void.
“Hawkett,” he said bitterly, “on his way to warn Murdock.
“Quick,” he snapped to Gail, “get the miners and their families together. Tell ’em not to take another ounce of ore from the crust. We’ll be back with a transport to pick ’em up as soon as we can.”
“We?” Gail said.
“Yeah,” Trent said, “you’ll have to put up with me for the next few hours. I need you to tell me everything you know about Murdock and this set-up while we’re arcing toward Venus. Snap it up.”
Gail wasted no time. She returned in less than five minutes, having changed into a soft leather space shirt and trousers. With her was a horde of ragged, but happy, miners—women and children. They cheered enthusiastically when they sighted Trent and poured through the door in the fence to offer him encouragements. Trent looked about at the roughly honest faces of the workers and the wistfully hopeful faces of the women and children. A tight line of muscle bunched at his jaw.
“We’ll make it soon as we possibly can,” he said quietly.
“Murdock’s got a pretty tough gang,” one of the miners said doubtfully.
“So has the Federation,” Trent said briefly.
“TELL Mr. Murdock a Federation agent is here to see him!”
Trent’s voice was as cold as the void itself. The trip from Asteroid 13 to this coastal Venusian city had taken two hours. Two hours which were, he knew, as two eternities to the people back on 13. The page to whom he delivered his demand disappeared through two chromeagleam doors which slid together and clicked softly after him. Trent looked briefly about the huge reception rooms with the glittering crystal walls and foamy blue marble floors and then back to Gail.
“Wait here for me,” he said. “I won’t be long with Murdock. Then we’ll head for the commercial spaceport, to take over a transport.”
He smiled at her then, with one of his rare smiles, and strode to the door through which the page had disappeared, jerked it open and strode into a luxuriously appointed office.
At a huge desk at the far end of the room sat a man who dwarfed the desk itself. His arms, resting on the desk before him, looked like massive posts and his chest looked the size of an oak tree trunk. His head was in proportion to the rest of his body and was covered with black hair as coarse as rope. His face was fat but not so fat that the hard, heavy jaw line was completely concealed. The eyes were small and black, and as Trent strode toward the man, he felt that the little eyes were boring not only at him but through him. The page, a slender youth, was standing next to the desk, obviously frightened.
“You wanted to see me?” Murdock asked in a gravel-throated voice. He nodded slightly to the page who disappeared silently.
“You bet I do,” Trent answered. “If your man Hawkett has been here maybe you know why I’m here. In my official capacity as Federation agent I am ordering evacuation of Asteroid 13. And that order is effective immediately.”
“Hawkett has been here,” Murdock said, “and I sort of expected you. I didn’t really expect you maybe, but I hoped you’d come. The only thing I enjoy more than a brave man is a fool, and you seem to be both, Mr. Trent.” Murdock leaned back in his chair and his mighty frame shook as he chuckled. “I’m not interested in the Federation. I�
��m interested in Pelyisium. Asteroid 13 is not going to be evacuated as you so optimistically expect. In fact, Hawkett is on his way back to 13 with a dozen guards to see that production is maintained. Does that satisfy all of your curiosity in connection with my business?”
“It doesn’t satisfy me, Murdock,” Trent said quietly. “If you’ve decided to battle the Federation you won’t be setting a precedent. A lot of men have fought us. But remember this: No man has ever licked the Federation. If you disregard my order you’ll be facing the Inter-Planetary Tribunal inside of a week.”
Murdock stood up, his pumpkin-like face crimson.
“To hell with your orders,” he bellowed wrathfully. “Nobody gives orders to me. In two more weeks I’ll have the Pelyisium of the Universe in my pocket and then I’ll give all the orders.” His palm slapped down on the desk across a row of buttons. “You’ve shot off your mouth too long about what you’re going to do, Mr. Agent. Your meddling days are over.”
TRENT tensed. He realized too late the mistake he had made. It had never occurred to him that Murdock was ready to defy the Federation.
“You asked for it,” he barked. Wheeling, he grabbed a chromealloy chair and hurled it at the mountainous figure behind the desk. He heard a crash and a bellow of rage, but by then he was racing for the chromeagleam doors. They opened before he reached them and two stocky figures charged into the room.
Trent hurled himself at their knees. He cut under them like a scythe through tall grass and rolled to his feet like a rubber ball.
“Gail,” he yelled. And then he was in the elaborate office and something like a cold hand closed over his heart. Gail was gone!
“Gail,” he shouted, staring frantically about the room. A door opened suddenly on the far side of the room and Trent saw three thoroughly business-like looking gentlemen pouring in on him. Behind him from the inner office he could hear Murdock’s enraged bellows.
Trent wheeled, raced for the main doors. One of Murdock’s thugs yelled something indistinguishable and moved to intercept him. Trent measured him, and, when he came into range, swung once with his right, in a chopping ax-like stroke. The man sprawled to the floor, his jaw hanging queerly.
Trent leaped over his limp form but before he could make the door a shoulder crashed into him from behind. He staggered but kept his feet, struggling toward the door dragging Murdock’s man with him. The man’s arms were tightening around his waist with every step. Panting, Trent whirled, shaking the man’s arms loose.
He saw in split-second panoramic view, Murdock’s mammoth figure in the doorway leading to the private office and the third of the thugs raising an electric gun. Before he could move a muscle a blinding flash seared his eyeballs and a piercing agonizing pain seemed to explode in the center of his forehead. Then he was lying on the floor and Murdock’s mountainous figure was over him. For one terrible, bitter instant he thought of Asteroid 13 and a girl with black hair and red lips who had trusted him. Then something black and thick and inevitable settled over him . . .
PAIN, searing and angry, wrapped its agonizing embrace about the huddled, limp figure which was stretched along the Venusian dock, legs trailing in the blue canal water. The figure moved and the legs were drawn another inch onto the dock. The figure was still then and it was moments before it moved again. When it did, the legs were drawn free from the water, and, very slowly, the figure turned on its back.
Philip Trent opened his eyes.
He saw nothing and it was minutes before his pain-fogged mind knew it was night. He lay there for minutes trying to assimilate that knowledge. It meant something to someone, he knew tiredly. The pain was localizing itself now at his right temple. Instinctively his hand moved there, touched something warm and sticky. He found then that his right eye was not open. It was closed and felt as if it were on fire.
Memory began to filter into his consciousness. Fire—heat—pain. It all fitted together somehow. He sat up groaning.
His mind was clearing fast as he stared about him. He was on a dark, unused, deserted wharf dock. His clothes were dripping wet. An occasional canal cruiser hummed by, its lights visible in the blackness.
He climbed slowly to his feet and pressed his hand against his temples as the fog lifted from his mind. He had been shot by Murdock’s man, evidently thrown into the canal for dead. His hands explored his pockets. All identification removed, tags ripped from his clothing.
God, how much time had passed? How long had he lain here? Two thoughts hammered into his pain-shot head. The miners on Asteroid 13 and Gail O’Neil. Maybe 13 had already blown itself into dust by now. But Gail O’Neil was still on Venus, held by Murdock’s men.
Lurching drunkenly, he staggered along the dark canal front, his mind black with despair. He had been walking for several minutes when he collided with a dark figure who was mooring a canal craft to a post set in the dock.
“Watch your step, you Venusian drunk,” the man growled.
Trent swayed slightly, then his hand slipped into his jacket pocket, formed a bulge there. A vague plan was forming. He knew he could expect no help on Venus; Murdock’s influence extended too far. Any man he might meet could be a Murdock spy. If Murdock discovered that he lived, he would be hunted down as ruthlessly and swiftly as a wharf rat.
“Okay friend,” he said grimly, “you’re the man I need.”
“What the—”
“Quiet,” Trent said, and the chilled steel quality was in his voice. “You’re going to take me to Murdock’s. Know the way?”
“Yes, but,” the man’s eyes dropped to the bulge in Trent’s jacket and he said no more. Turning he threw off the mooring line and clambered into the bullet-like canal convertible.
TRENT climbed in after him, seated himself in the rear seat.
“Gonna submerge,” the unwilling pilot said surlily. “Watch your head.” He flicked a switch and a steel cowling moved into place over Trent’s head, converting the boat into a slim torpedo boat.
A second later the boat moved noiselessly forward and then Trent felt the nose drop suddenly as it submerged. Over the pilot’s shoulder he could see the sub’s powerful headlamp cutting a bright swath through the still, blue water.
“We’ll reach Murdock’s water ramp in a few minutes,” the pilot said later. He laughed unpleasantly. “I hope to hell you try to treat him like you done me. He’ll pay you off for both of us.”
Trent didn’t answer. His head was throbbing painfully and the pain in his right eye was growing worse. He still couldn’t see with it.
He felt the nose of the craft tipping up again and then in a few more seconds the steel cowling shot back. The boat was bobbing against a dock in a mammoth circular waterway.
Trent climbed from the boat, took his hand from his pocket, showed the glowering pilot his empty pocket, then walked quickly into one of the passages that led from the circular dock. The passage was winding and ascending and in two turns he ran into a guard.
The guard looked at him curiously as he approached.
“I’m looking for some one,” Trent said, “and I wonder if—” He stopped speaking as he stepped close to the guard. He knew he would have only one chance. The guard was peering at his battered and bloody face with open suspicion when Trent swung. The blow lacked steam. The guard staggered but he did not go down. His hand clawed at his gun, as Trent leaped at him desperately. His elbow sank into the guard’s throat. The guard slammed back against the wall, his head snapping into its brick-hard surface with a sickening smack.
Trent took the gun from the limp body and went on. He emerged from the spiraling passage into a large, lavishly decorated lobby. It was brilliantly lighted and quite empty. Trent shook his head and went on. Somewhere in these ornate rooms Gail O’Neil was held prisoner. And here also was Big Bill Murdock.
Halfway across the marble floor Trent heard a shout behind him. Turning he saw two yellow jacketed Venusian house-boys coming toward him.
Trent ran. His head ached slightly a
s he stumbled across the foyer and up an ornately decorated winding staircase. Panting, he staggered up the last steps and into a hallway.
Something exploded past him with a searing hiss. Wheeling, Trent saw one of Murdock’s thugs at the far end of the corridor, electric gun in hand.
Trent hurled himself to the floor, the gun in his hand leaping into instinctive action. A fiery electric pellet pinged from the gun and Trent saw the man pitch to the floor.
Scrambling to his feet Trent dragged himself up the stairway. The Venusian houseboys had retreated hurriedly when the firing had started. Trent’s jaw hardened. He knew he didn’t have much more time. Looking down the stairs he could see through to the first floor where the Venusians were excitedly clamoring for help. Trent went on up the stairs to the fourth floor.
He heard the sound, then, of footsteps above him and he hurried down the fourth floor corridor. He tried one door and then another. It opened under his hand. He shut the door swiftly, setting the electric lock as he did so. Then, gun in hand, he looked about the room. It was just as luxuriously furnished as everything he had seen, but it seemed more like an office. There was a desk, flashaphone, dictagraphs.
He crossed the heavily rugged floor, quietly and swiftly, to another door. He opened it a crack and then held his breath as he heard voices. He crouched, ear to the door and listened.
“YOU’RE being very foolish, my dear,” he heard a voice say. A hot pulse pounded in his throat as he recognized it as Murdock’s. “Trent is dead,” Murdock’s voice resumed, “make no mistake about that. Forget him and the people on 13. What are they but the scum and riff-raff of creation anyway? A girl as smart as you are would get on very well here with me.”
“I don’t believe Philip Trent is dead,” Trent heard Gail’s defiant voice answer, “but if he is you’ll answer to the Federation for his death.”
Trent kicked open the door and stepped into the room, gun ready.
“You’re right, Gail,” he said grimly. “Mr. Murdock is going to answer to the Federation.”
Murdock sat behind a large desk, his face whitening as Trent’s battered and unkempt figure moved slowly toward him. Gail turned swiftly at the sound of his voice, her face lighting with incredulous joy. Then she moved toward him, her expression changing.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 13
