Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “No,” he said, and his voice was husky with constrained emotion, “we don’t need to be polite, Richardson. When I read of your trial and conviction I was the happiest man in the Universe. The brilliant Lieutenant Richardson sentenced to my prison for seditious activities! No, we needn’t be polite any longer.”

  Macy stood up, flushed, eyes gleaming.

  “I am your master now, Richardson,” he said, in a voice so low that the words were only a whisper. “As you value your hide, don’t give me the opportunity to use my authority. It wouldn’t be pleasant—for you.”

  Blake couldn’t resist a mocking grin. “Nice, progressive place you run here,” he said with bitter irony. “I suppose you have all the most advanced implements. Rack, thumbscrews, flogging posts—”

  “Stop,” Macy said quietly. There was a deadly undercurrent of venom in his voice that was as chilling as death. “I don’t appreciate your levity.”

  “Shall I teach him a lesson?”

  The brutal-jawed guard, standing to the left and slightly behind Blake, asked the question. He moved closer as he spoke, flexing the heavy hide whip in his hands.

  “No,” Macy said tonelessly. “Take him to his cell. Your chance will come later, Mortain.”

  “Come on,” the guard addressed as Mortain snapped. He grabbed Blake by the shoulder and shoved him toward the open door.

  Blake’s eyes narrowed and his eyes were like chips of blue ice, but no word passed his tightly locked jaws.

  “I shall make it a point to see you often,” Macy said softly.

  Blake looked at the man for a full instant, then he shuffled from the room. Mortain followed him.

  CHAPTER III

  Prison

  MORTAIN led Blake through the cheerless gray corridors of the Venusian prison, until he reached a cell whose door was standing open.

  “This is your palace from now on,” he said mockingly. “The last guy we put in here died in two weeks. I hope you’re tougher than that.”

  Blake looked at the man steadily. “You can count on me lasting longer than that,” he said, and his voice was like thin ice breaking.

  Mortain’s lips twisted in an ugly grin.

  “I hope so,” he said softly. “Now, get in.”

  Blake stepped into the black doorway, and Mortain shoved him, suddenly, viciously, from behind. He staggered forward and fell to the hard stone floor. He heard Mortain’s mocking laugh, then the heavy iron clang of the door.

  Blake crawled slowly to his feet and fought down the black anger that burned in his whole body like some ravaging disease. He stumbled over to the wall and explored with his hands until he found a lumpy narrow cot. Stretching out he tried to relax and calm his thoughts.

  Above his head was a narrow, barred window, through which the steamy, damp atmosphere of Venus streamed into the cell. The air was cold and damp.

  Blake pulled his coarse jacket closer about his neck. He wondered when the money from Commander Evans would arrive. Until it did he could do nothing but wait.

  The next morning Blake was introduced to Venusian prison routine. With a group of eight he was led from the prison stockade into the lush swampy areas that surrounded the prison. They were equipped with heavy axes and the apparent purpose of their work was to clear the spongy water-soaked vegetation from the soggy soil.

  Why, Blake couldn’t guess. The labor was pointless and unproductive, but it was something to do. Standing ankle deep in scummy green water, Blake hacked at the fibrous plant life in grim silence. And he watched the actions of the guards and prisoners carefully.

  At darkness they were returned to their cells. Blake stood with his blistered hands gripping the bars of his window, staring bleakly out over the steaming, humid land, wondering . . .

  A MONTH passed. A month in which Blake grew thin and ragged and desperate. He was soul-sick of the brutality of the guards, the bleak horror of the existence, the terrible punishments meted out to the convicts for the least infraction of the rules.

  But he had learned nothing. He hadn’t seen Macy since the day he’d arrived.

  One night, six weeks after his arrival on the sweltering prison planet, Mortain stopped at the door of his cell.

  “On your feet,” he growled. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  Blake felt his heart hammering with excitement. He stood up and shoved his unkempt, mud-caked hair from his eyes, as the cell door swung open. A shaft of light fell onto the cell floor. Mortain stepped aside and a figure filled the doorway.

  “Hello, Richardson,” the man in the doorway said.

  Blake’s hands tightened convulsively at the sound of that familiar voice.

  “Commander Evans!” he breathed.

  The commander stepped into the cell and Mortain followed him, whip in hand.

  “We’ve got to watch him, Commander,” Mortain said. “He’s a bad one.” Blake now had a look at his chief’s face, as the corridor light flooded the cell. It was impassive and stern.

  “You may wait outside,” the commander said to Mortain. “I’ll call if I need you.”

  “All right, sir,” Mortain said. He looked dubiously at Blake, then turned and left the cell.

  The commander glanced after him, then turned quickly to Blake. His face was still expressionless, but there was an urgent gleam in his eyes.

  He said loudly, “You got just what you deserved, Richardson. Don’t expect any sympathy from me.” But his hand dug into the front of his tunic and he shoved a slim packet into Blake’s hands.

  Dazedly, Blake fingered the package, and then as realization came, he hurriedly stuffed it into the front of his shirt. Relief flooded over him in a reviving wave.

  “Thank—”

  “I can do nothing for you,” the commander said in a harsh tone that completely drowned out Blake’s voice.

  Without another word he turned and strode from the cell. Blake heard him say something to Mortain, then the cell door clanged and Blake heard their retreating footsteps.

  HE WAS left alone in the darkness.

  After a few moments he took the packet from his shirt front and carefully opened it. His fingers felt crisp slips of paper. Moving to the faint light from the window he saw that the package contained a sheaf of solar notes, redeemable anywhere in the Universe. They added up to an impressive figure.

  Blake stood in the darkness of his cell, until he heard Mortain’s footsteps coming back down the corridor. He stepped to the narrow slit in the cell door and whistled softly.

  Mortain stopped and then walked slowly toward Blake’s cell. Blake could see his ugly brutal face in the dim light of the corridor and the cold gleam in his close-set eyes.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “Macy,” Blake said shortly.

  “You’re crazy. Get into your bunk and shut up.”

  Blake peeled off one of the bills and shoved it through the slit.

  “Tell him it’s important,” he said.

  Mortain took the bill and his heavy face clouded with a greedy suspicion. He stared at the note for an instant then shoved it hurriedly into his pocket.

  “Where’d you get that?” he demanded.

  “Never mind. Do I see Macy, or don’t I?”

  Mortain hesitated for a moment, his piggish eyes shifting uncertainly. Finally he shrugged.

  “I’ll tell him,” he said.

  Blake felt a dizzying relief as Mortain moved away. The first step had been taken. Where it might lead he had no idea.

  Fifteen minutes passed and Blake’s nerves jumped at every tiny noise. He paced the narrow length of the cell like a caged leopard. His hands opened and closed spasmodically. Finally he heard footsteps in the corridor. He sprang to the door of the cell and peered out the narrow slit.

  In the dim illumination of the corridor he saw Macy, the prison super, walking softly in the direction of his cell.

  There was a faint, enigmatic smile on his face, and his blue eyes were wide and bright. His hands were in
his pockets and his thin shoulders were hunched about his neck.

  “Well, well,” he said softly, as he stopped before Blake’s door, “the mountain comes to Mahomet. You should be gratified—eh—Mr. Richardson. What is on your mind?”

  BLAKE studied the man carefully.

  Macy knew he had money, Mortain would tell him that. Therefore, there was nothing to be gained stalling.

  “I’m fed up here,” he said quietly.

  “Most of my prisoners are,” Macy smiled.

  “Most of your prisoners can’t buy their way out,” Blake said. “I can.”

  Macy looked up and down the corridor, pursing his lips.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Give me the money.”

  “What assurance do I have that you’ll keep the bargain?” Blake demanded.

  “None,” Macy said. “And you are hardly in a position to bargain.”

  Blake realized that Macy spoke the truth. His moist fingers tightened on the slim bundle of currency. It was his only weapon. Once gone and he would have nothing, but it was a chance he had to take.

  He handed the currency through the slit, and Macy’s slim hand closed over it greedily.

  “Thank you,” he whispered softly. With a mocking smile he turned and slowly walked away.

  Blake listened until his footsteps had died away, then he turned away from the door and flung himself on the cot. A fierce exultation was leaping through him. In another twenty-four hours he might have all the proof he’d need.

  But he didn’t have to wait that long. In the middle of the night he was awakened from a fitful sleep by a furtive tapping on the door. Instantly alert, he stood up quickly, every nerve tingling. The tapping was repeated.

  He stepped to the door, his stockinged feet muffling the sound of his steps. Mortain’s broad, brutal face was at the narrow aperture.

  “What’s up?” Blake asked.

  “Not so loud. Get dressed, you’re leaving.”

  Blake’s fingers trembled with suppressed excitement. He nodded and stepped back to his bunk. It was the work of a moment to slip into his shoes and pull his coarse jerkin over his head. He returned to the door.

  “Ready,” he whispered.

  He heard a key grate in the door’s lock, the next second the door opened. Mortain’s bulky figure was almost completely covered with an ankle-length oiled coat, and he carried an automatic flare in one hand and an electric pistol in the other.

  HE MOTIONED Blake to follow him, then lead the way down the poorly lit corridor. At an intersection he turned at right angles and continued along another corridor until he came to a locked, steel door. This he opened. It led to a winding staircase that led, Blake knew, to the central stockade.

  Mortain went down the steps quickly and Blake followed at his heels. At the base of the steps Mortain opened another door and the damp, murky atmosphere of the planet billowed in about them. Mortain stepped through the door into the main stockade, a cleared area, several hundred feet square, surrounded by the prison’s electrically charged fences.

  Blake followed Mortain across this clearing toward the central gate. There was no furtiveness or hesitation in Mortain’s attitude. Blake realized that this was probably not a new procedure for the guard.

  When they reached the gate, Mortain signalled to the guard in the tower and the gate swung open. The two men stepped through and it closed behind them immediately. Obviously the tower guards were old hands at this. Blake smiled grimly. When and if he reached Commander Evans again, he’d have dynamite stored up to blow this corrupt administration sky-high.

  Mortain removed the metal shield from his flare and it instantly blazed into light, throwing a brilliant illumination yards about them. The flares were composed of a chemical substance that reacted with the aqueous atmosphere and produced a steady, unquenchable flame.

  Without speaking Mortain struck out into the swampy depths of Venus. Blake followed, churning knee-deep in the slimy underfooting. The water laden air seemed to press in on him, making breathing difficult. His clothes were soaking wet within a hundred yards and he was covered with muck and slime to his hips, but he didn’t mind. He was free and he was on the trail of the information that would smash this rottenly corrupt penal system.

  That was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER IV

  Into the Swamp

  FOR two hours they slopped through the swampy ooze of the planet, crashing and stumbling through the fibrous foliage and sinking to their hips in the treacherous bogs and pits. Blake’s breath was a sharp pain in his throat and the muscles of his legs ached intolerably.

  But eventually Blake sighted a light in the distance. Mortain obviously noticed it too, for he changed his course slightly to head directly for it and he pressed on at even greater speed.

  “Is that our destination?” Blake gasped.

  Mortain grunted something unintelligible and sloshed on without answering.

  In another fifteen minutes they reached the light. It was an automatic flare erected in the center of a small clearing. By its glaring illumination Blake saw a small, crudely built structure and a small space mooring tower.

  He studied the scene with dawning realization. This was obviously the rendezvous where the liberated prisoners met the ships that carried them off to the far points of the Universe.

  Mortain stopped in the center of the clearing, breathing heavily. He looked around and then, apparently satisfied, he turned to face Blake.

  “What now? Blake asked.

  Mortain grinned unpleasantly. There was a sadistic anticipation in his dark, brutal-jawed face, as he very slowly swung the barrel of his gun up to cover Blake.

  “This is the end of the line for you,” he said harshly.

  Blake heard the words with horrible clearness, but it took a full minute for their impact to penetrate.

  “Don’t try anything foolish,” Mortain said softly, “unless you’re in a hurry to keep your date with eternity.” He lifted his voice. “All right, Macy.”

  Blake’s eyes swung to the door of the small structure as Macy appeared there, his soft features twisted in a gloating smile. He watched in a trancelike daze as Macy stepped through the doorway and walked slowly across the clearing.

  “Neatly done, Mortain,” he purred.

  “Shall I give it to him?” Mortain asked. The barrel of his electric gun was unwaveringly centered on Blake’s chest and his finger was trembling with eagerness.

  “Don’t be impatient,” Macy said, with a soft smile. “I’m rather enjoying this little scene. Perhaps Mr. Richardson has something to say before he—eh—leaves us.”

  BLAKE’S hot gaze swung from Mortain’s brutal leering face to Macy’s smiling features. A blazing rage was coursing through his body like a red flame.

  “Damn you!” he grated.

  Macy chuckled gently and rubbed his thin hands together.

  “How melodramatic you become in your anger. As a matter of fact I staged this little party just to make your last moments as uncomfortable as possible—eh—Mr. Richardson. I knew there would be little solace in your realizing that we have been aware of your little plan since the day you entered the prison. We have all been vastly amused by your stupid subterfuge. Now it is our regrettable duty to kill you—kill you as you are attempting to make an escape. That, at least, will be the story for the official records. I couldn’t resist the opportunity of telling you this much myself. That is why I had Mortain go to the considerable trouble of bringing you out to our transfer station. I am leaving soon on a rather important trip but I wanted to witness your last uncomfortable moments before leaving.”

  As Macy stopped speaking he nodded briefly to Mortain.

  “I think you may proceed,” he said. “As long as Mr. Richardson has nothing to add to this little drama we might as well get on with the climax.”

  Mortain shifted the gun slightly and Blake felt his stomach muscles contract in anticipation of the blasting bolt that was sure to come.

 
Suddenly Blake heard a sound above his head. Instinctively his eyes raised. In the murky gloom of the atmosphere he saw a small, blunt-nosed space ship drifting down toward the mooring tower.

  “Right on time,” he heard Macy say.

  Blake glanced at Mortain then and saw that the guard had also glanced up at the settling ship—and that the gun in his hand had veered carelessly to one side.

  With every atom of his lithe strength Blake sprang—not for Mortain—but to the side toward the blazing flare. He heard Macy yell and before the echo of the cry had died Mortain’s electric gun hissed spitefully. A searing pellet of live fire burned through the sleeve of his jumper, branding the flesh of his arm with excruciating pain.

  His hand closed on the shaft of the flare. Jerking it from the ground he rolled to one side as Mortain’s gun spat flame again. The pellet missed, but its hot breath fanned his cheek in passing.

  Then he was on his feet, out of the line of Mortain’s fire. With a savage swing he hurled the blazing flare straight at his face. Mortain screamed and dropped to one knee, but he was not quick enough. The flaming flare grazed his head, knocking him onto his back.

  Blake dove onto his threshing figure, grappling for the gun that was clenched in his hands. With a scream of pain and fury Mortain fought to jam the muzzle of the gun against Blake’s body, but Blake’s hold on his wrist doubled the gun back against his own stomach.

  Blake heard Macy’s feet scuffling behind him, but before he could move, something crashed into the back of his head with sickening force.

  HE FELL forward, blinded with pain, a thousand pinwheels of brilliant lights exploding in his head. His weight pressed against the electric gun beneath him and he dimly heard its sudden sputtering blast.

  A scream tore from Mortain’s lips and he threshed wildly beneath Blake’s sagging weight. Blake rolled to one side and his face fell into a pool of green murky water.