_Behind a pale Venusian mask lay hidden the
arch-humanist, the anti-tech killer ... one of
those who needlessly had strewn Malone blood
across the heavens from Saturn to the sun.
Now--on distant Trojan asteroids--the
rendezvous for death was plainly marked._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The most dangerous is not the outlawed murderer, who only slays men,
but the rebellious philosopher: for he destroys worlds.
Darkness and the chill glitter of stars. Bo Jonsson crouched on a
whirling speck of stone and waited for the man who was coming to kill
him.
There was no horizon. The flying mountain on which he stood was
too small. At his back rose a cliff of jagged rock, losing its own
blackness in the loom of shadows; its teeth ate raggedly across the
Milky Way. Before him, a tumbled igneous wilderness slanted crazily
off, with one long thin crag sticking into the sky like a grotesque
bowsprit.
There was no sound except the thudding of his own heart, the harsh rasp
of his own breath, locked inside the stinking metal skin of his suit.
Otherwise ... no air, no heat, no water or life or work of man, only a
granite nakedness spinning through space out beyond Mars.
Stooping, awkward in the clumsy armor, he put the transparent plastic
of his helmet to the ground. Its cold bit at him even through the
insulating material. He might be able to hear the footsteps of his
murderer conducted through the ground.
Stillness answered him. He gulped a heavy lungful of tainted air
and rose. The other might be miles away yet, or perhaps very close,
catfooting too softly to set up vibrations. A man could do that when
gravity was feeble enough.
The stars blazed with a cruel wintry brilliance, over him, around
him, light-years to fall through emptiness before he reached one. He
had been alone among them before; he had almost thought them friends.
Sometimes, on a long watch, a man found himself talking to Vega or
Spica or dear old Beetle Juice, murmuring what was in him as if the
remote sun could understand. But they didn't care, he saw that now. To
them, he did not exist, and they would shine carelessly long after he
was gone into night.
He had never felt so alone as now, when another man was on the asteroid
with him, hunting him down.
Bo Jonsson looked at the wrench in his hand. It was long and massive,
it would have been heavy on Earth, but it was hardly enough to unscrew
the stars and reset the machinery of a universe gone awry. He smiled
stiffly at the thought. He wanted to laugh too, but checked himself for
fear he wouldn't be able to stop.
_Let's face it_, he told himself. _You're scared. You're scared
sweatless._ He wondered if he had spoken it aloud.
There was plenty of room on the asteroid. At least two hundred square
miles, probably more if you allowed for the rough surface. He could
skulk around, hide ... and suffocate when his tanked air gave out. He
had to be a hunter, too, and track down the other man, before he died.
And if he found his enemy, he would probably die anyway.
He looked about him. Nothing. No sound, no movement, nothing but the
streaming of the constellations as the asteroid spun. Nothing had ever
moved here, since the beginning of time when moltenness congealed into
death. Not till men came and hunted each other.
Slowly he forced himself to move. The thrust of his foot sent him
up, looping over the cliff to drift down like a dead leaf in Earth's
October. Suit, equipment, and his own body, all together, weighed only
a couple of pounds here. It was ghostly, this soundless progress over
fields which had never known life. It was like being dead already.
Bo Jonsson's tongue was dry and thick in his mouth. He wanted to
find his enemy and give up, buy existence at whatever price it would
command. But he couldn't do that. Even if the other man let him do it,
which was doubtful, he couldn't. Johnny Malone was dead.
Maybe that was what had started it all--the death of Johnny Malone.
* * * * *
There are numerous reasons for basing on the Trojan asteroids, but
the main one can be given in a single word: stability. They stay put
in Jupiter's orbit, about sixty degrees ahead and behind, with only
minor oscillations; spaceships need not waste fuel coming up to a body
which has been perturbed a goodly distance from where it was supposed
to be. The trailing group is the jumping-off place for trans-Jovian
planets, the leading group for the inner worlds--that way, their own
revolution about the sun gives the departing ship a welcome boost,
while minimizing the effects of Jupiter's drag.
Moreover, being dense clusters, they have attracted swarms of miners,
so that Achilles among the leaders and Patroclus in the trailers have a
permanent boom town atmosphere. Even though a spaceship and equipment
represent a large investment, this is one of the last strongholds of
genuinely private enterprise: the prospector, the mine owner, the
rockhound dreaming of the day when his stake is big enough for him to
start out on his own--a race of individualists, rough and noisy and
jealous, but living under iron rules of hospitality and rescue.
The Last Chance on Achilles has another name, which simply sticks an
"r" in the official one; even for that planetoid, it is a rowdy bar
where Guardsmen come in trios. But Johnny Malone liked it, and talked
Bo Jonsson into going there for a final spree before checkoff and
departure. "Nothing to compare," he insisted. "Every place else is
getting too fantangling civilized, except Venus, and I don't enjoy
Venus."
Johnny was from Luna City himself: a small, dark man with the quick
nervous movements and dipped accent of that roaring commercial
metropolis. He affected the latest styles, brilliant colors in the
flowing tunic and slacks, a beret cocked on his sleek head. But somehow
he didn't grate on Bo, they had been partners for several years now.
They pushed through a milling crowd at the bar, rockhounds who watched
one of Achilles' three live ecdysiasts with hungry eyes, and by some
miracle found an empty booth. Bo squeezed his bulk into one side of the
cubicle while Johnny, squinting through a reeking smoke-haze, dialed
drinks. Bo was larger and heavier than most spacemen--he'd never have
gotten his certificate before the ion drive came in--and was usually
content to let others talk while he listened. A placid blond giant,
with amiable blue eyes in a battered brown face, he did not consider
himself bright, and always wanted to learn.
Johnny gulped his drink and winced. "Whiskey, they call it yet! Water,
synthetic alcohol, and a dash of caramel they have the gall to label
whiskey and charge for!"
"Everything's expensive here," said Bo mildly. "That's why so few
rockhounds get rich. They make a lot of money, but they have to spend
it just as fast to stay alive."
"Yeh ... yeh ... wish they'd spend some of it on us." Johnny grinned
and fed the dispenser another coin. It muttered to itself and slid
forth a tray with a glass. "C'mon, drink up, man. It's a long way home,
and we've got to fortify ourselves for the trip. A bottle, a battle,
and a wench is what I need. Most especially the wench, because I don't
think the eminent Dr. McKittrick is gonna be interested in sociability,
and it's close quarters aboard the _Dog_."
Bo kept on sipping slowly. "Johnny," he said, raising his voice to cut
through the din, "you're an educated man. I never could figure out why
you want to talk like a jumper."
"Because I am one at heart. Look, Bo, why don't you get over that
inferiority complex of yours? A man can't run a spaceship without
knowing more math and physical science than the average professor on
Earth. So you had to work your way through the Academy and never had a
chance to fan yourself with a lily white hand while somebody tootled
Mozart through a horn. So what?" Johnny's head darted around, birdlike.
"If we want some women we'd better make our reservations now."
"I don't, Johnny," said Bo. "I'll just nurse a beer." It wasn't morals
so much as fastidiousness; he'd wait till they hit Luna.
"Suit yourself. If you don't want to uphold the honor of the Sirius
Transportation Company--"
Bo chuckled. The Company consisted of (a) the _Sirius_; (b) her crew,
himself and Johnny; (c) a warehouse, berth, and three other part owners
back in Luna City. Not exactly a tramp ship, because you can't normally
stop in the middle of an interplanetary voyage and head for somewhere
else; but she went wherever there was cargo or people to be moved.
Her margin of profit was not great in spite of the charges, for a
space trip is expensive; but in a few more years they'd be able to buy
another ship or two, and eventually Fireball and Triplanetary would be
getting some competition. Even the public lines might have to worry a
little.
Johnny put away another couple of shots and rose. Alcohol cost plenty,
but it was also more effective in low-gee. "'Scuse me," he said. "I see
a target. Sure you don't want me to ask if she has a friend?"
Bo shook his head and watched his partner move off, swift in the puny
gravity--the Last Chance didn't centrifuge like some of the tommicker
places downtown. It was hard to push through the crowd without weight
to help, but Johnny faded along and edged up to the girl with his
highest-powered smile. There were several other men standing around
her, but Johnny had The Touch. He'd be bringing her back here in a few
minutes.
Bo sighed, feeling a bit lonesome. If he wasn't going to make a night
of it, there was no point in drinking heavily. He had to make the final
inspection of the ship tomorrow, and grudged the cost of anti-hangover
tablets. Besides what he was putting back into the business, he was
trying to build a private hoard; some day, he'd retire and get married
and build a house. He already had the site picked out, on Kullen
overlooking the Sound, back on Earth. Man, but it was a long time since
he'd been on Earth!
A sharp noise slashed through the haze of talk and music Bo looked up.
There was a tall black haired man, Venusian to judge by his kilts,
arguing with Johnny. His face was ugly with anger.
Johnny made some reply. Bo heaved up his form and strode toward the
discussion, casually picking up anyone in the way and setting him
aside. Johnny liked a fight, but this Venusian was big.