Matt had to destroy the rocket because it
was a symbol of evil that had brought economic
disaster. But must he also destroy--the future?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
March 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was well after dark when Matt Matthews got back down to the
headquarters camp, and saw the city stranger sitting there before
the fire. He knew he was a city man after a single glance at the
shiny, low-topped shoes and the reminiscence of a crease in the dusty
trousers. Matt tossed the gophers and the two small coyotes off his
broad shoulders to old Moe Arhelger, across the campfire, staring in
suspicious silence from the stranger to Moe and back again. "Who's he?"
he asked finally.
"He wants to go down to the Ship," said Moe, tossing another stick
into the fire. He was a thin, wiry old man, with a white rim of beard
scraggling over his lean jaw. A short-bit pipe was clenched between a
set of very bad teeth. On his head was a torn, filthy old felt hat,
but his clear blue eyes held the silent confidence of authority. The
old man puffed quietly as he glanced up at the young giant who had
just arrived. "His name's Loevy--he says. Flew over from El Paso this
morning in a 'copter, just to see me. Even knew my name--"
"Everybody in New Mexico knows your name," Matthews growled.
The old man nodded, his eyes bright. "Mr. Loevy wants to go down to the
Ship tonight."
Matt stared at the stranger's half-day stubble. Then he burst out
laughing. "That's what we all want to do, buddy. Just go down to the
Ship. That's all. Only trouble is, the Bulldog isn't ready to lay out
the welcome mat for us just yet." He glanced over at Moe. "Did the doc
say anything about Jack Abel?"
"Jack's dead. Three slugs in the head."
Matt's face darkened. He looked up at Loevy. "Jack wanted to go down to
the ship, too. Tried to go down quiet-like." He set about skinning the
first coyote, tossing the rest of the game to the group of silent men
sitting around the fire near Moe. "You're wasting your time, stranger.
Stick around a while. Be patient, like us. The Bulldog can't hold out
forever."
Loevy ran a hand through his dark hair, watching Matthews with sharp
brown eyes. "I wasn't figuring on going down quiet-like," he said.
Matt looked up as though seeing the man for the first time, his eyes
dark with suspicion. "Then how _do_ you plan to go?" His hand moved to
the gun at his side, and he began massaging the stock with his huge paw.
Loevy glanced at the gun without fear. "Under a truce flag," he said.
Matthews spat. "Old man Gorham has command of four hundred men down at
the ship. They'll shoot anybody that comes close on sight." He looked
up at Moe, caught the old man's blue eyes sharply. "I don't like this
guy, Moe. I think we'd better take care of him."
Moe shook his head. "Take it easy, Matt. The man thinks maybe he can
get this siege broken. Thinks Gorham may surrender if he knows what's
happened--in Washington, all over the country."
Loevy nodded, bobbing his head eagerly. "I knew Gorham--before the
crash. He's an old-guard soldier, he'll honor a truce flag." His voice
was crisp in the still night air. "You want to get your hands on that
ship--that's all you want, the whole crowd of you out here. Nothing
else. So why risk a fight, risk getting killed, if I can get Gorham to
surrender to you?"
Matt grinned unpleasantly. "Why do you think they call him the Bulldog?
He'll never give up--until we starve him out. We've got the time, and
the men, and the food. They can't last much longer--"