Rusty strained his tired eyes, could see nothing. They marched on.
A faint glow appeared in the distance, slowly widened, became dots of
light. It was one of the smaller moon settlements, Spike said; chiefly
populated by rich farmers who raised the delicious _cavote_, luscious
fruit cultivated for the interplanetary trade.
They halted on the outskirts of the city.
The city was dark. There were few lights but Rusty looked at the
shadowed windows and knew people were asleep there, peacefully in a
commonplace existence. For a moment he revered their simple lives, and
the ordinary held no memory of monotony but a yearning for its rest as
his heart went into the city and softly cried for admission. But there
was no response to his pleas, only the black windows, and his longings
were but a hollow mockery of his weary soul. He was a fugitive, a
convicted murderer in the eyes of all he might meet--he was as these
with whom he had fled just punishment. Trapped by a laughing fate, he
felt little hope for peace ever again. His loneliness flamed to rage.
"Where's the space port?" asked Spike.
"I take," said Lothar, who had been there before.
He led them around the cluster of dimly lighted buildings, past the
mud-flats of cavot plants. The city was voiceless, the streets were
vacant. As they turned a corner, a great clearing spread before them,
a landing field dotted with the shadowed shapes of space liners, and
smaller craft. The field was sparsely lighted.
They paused.
"Spread out. See what's about," Spike whispered. "Meet here in ten
revs."
The men slowly faded into the darkness.
Rusty saw a flat, lighted building at a near corner of the field.
Moving stealthily to a glowing window, he peeped over the sill. The
walls were filled with space-station equipment. In the center of the
room was a table around which nine men were seated, Martian pilots and
a native watchman. As Rusty looked, the watchman arose, strapped a gun
about him and left the room.
Rusty heard an outside door open and close, fled silently.
He returned, found the Venusian and Lothar. Spike had not come back.
* * * * *
They waited, staring into the darkness.
The night was suddenly torn by the staccato hiss of a vib-ray.
Spike appeared, breathless. "Watchman saw me!" he panted. "Found a
ship. Come on!"
He sped again into the shadows, led them to a big space liner which
nestled in the darkness of a hangar. The door was open. Spike motioned
for them to enter.
A form materialized at the stern of the ship. A vib-ray spat.
Rusty, following the Venusian in the small door, saw Spike leap at the
man. He could not make them out in the darkness. As he jumped down, he
heard a quickly throttled groan.
Spike appeared again. "Get in! Quick!" Shouts and the sound of running
feet came toward them.
Lothar was already inside. Rusty climbed in. Spike slammed the heavy
door.
No sound came through the insulated walls but as they paused for breath
the room grew rapidly warm--hot.
"They're raying the door!" cried Rusty. He had seen it done in many a
police raid.
The plate glowed to a red heat, melted to a puddle. They sprang aside.
"Come out!" commanded a toneless voice. "We've got you!"
Rusty ran to the left, the others to the right. He tried the door to
the next room. It was locked. The others had disappeared into the
forward compartments, the door closed behind them. Rusty no longer felt
fear nor panic. He was an animal now, fighting to live. He silently
crept to the side of the seared hole in the hull. A dim glow of light
entered from the field.
A sleek vib-ray poked its long nose in the doorway. Rusty waited. The
gun was followed by an arm. A man came into view. His skin was red,
Martian. He climbed into the ship, followed by six more.
Rusty crouched in the darkness, holding his breath.
They stood in the dim light, peering warily about. There had been nine
at the station, Rusty remembered. Spike had gotten one. Where was the
other? But they would discover him in a moment.
Rusty moved swiftly. He snatched a rifle from the nearest man. With the
same movement, brought the stock upward, smashed it into the crimson
face.
The others whirled.
Rusty leveled the vib-ray at them. They stared and their guns clattered
to the floor. Slowly, their hands raised.
"Spike!" yelled Rusty.
The door opened and the Earthian peered out. Lothar and the Venusian
crowded behind him.
"What's the best ship here?" Rusty demanded of the tight-lipped
Martians. There was no answer. What did one do when one had a gun,
wanted a man to speak and he wouldn't?
Spike entered the room. "I'll make 'em talk!" he said. He picked up a
fallen gun, and before Rusty could stop him had fired into the group.
Four men died to show Rusty what one did.
The answers of the remaining three were as specific as they were hasty.
"Shall I finish 'em off?" asked Spike, amused. Rusty moved to stop him.
"Shall I finish you off?" said a voice at the door. "Don't turn around!
Stay where you are!"
The missing man, thought Rusty. His heart did not leap at the sudden
voice. He had grown to expect these things. Would he soon laugh at
death as did Spike?
The Martians inside smirked, bent for their guns.
Rusty was looking at Spike. What would _he_ do? And Spike was not slow
in acting. His gun was still leveled at the stooping men. His face did
not change as flame shot from the barrel. In utter bravado, Spike rayed
them down. Darted swiftly back against the wall out of the line of fire.
The gun hissed outside, missed and struck into the bodies of his own
fellows. He would fire again.
Before he could turn the gun, Rusty was upon him.
They crashed to the ground. Rusty's spring carried him over the man,
who was on his feet instantly, gun poised.
The gun was silent. Rusty rolled cautiously over.
He saw the bulk of the Vulcanian looming behind the crimson man. A huge
hand had crushed his shoulder.
Lothar raised the Martian, bashed him against the side of the ship. He
fell limply, did not move.
Rusty got up. There were seven dead men in the plane. One was before
him, broken and bleeding. Another lay somewhere in the shadows. The
nine men he had seen at the table in the station were dead. Was it his
fault? He had killed none of them. No? They had been protecting their
rights, their property. They had died doing so.
Fish climbed down from the ship. He kicked aside the body on the
ground. Lothar laughed deep in his chest.
"We're wasting time," said Spike with a grin. He turned to the
designated ship.
Rusty wondered if he could write of these things. The Tele-news seemed
but a hazy memory.
* * * * *
The plane was a light cruiser, swift and well-armed. Probably the
property of a wealthy merchant, it was luxuriously furnished.
Rusty gave the ship no more than a tired glance, waited for the
take-off.
Jets roared in a steep ascension, then hushed to a restful drone. They
passed out of the moon's heavy atmosphere. Rusty saw the stars cease to
twinkle, change to a steady, burning light.
They were in space, dim and shadowy--headed home.
Rusty, Spike and the Vulcanian fell into berths as the ship was set on
its course. Navigation was left to the Venusian. He did not sleep, gave
no sign of fatigue. It was part of his nature.
Rusty slept dreamlessly and when he awoke, he found almost two days had
passed. Mars glowed redly behind them and the star of Earth was bright
before the view Plates.
Earth. Home. New York. He stared at the pin point of light, tried to
locate the city. Millions of people there, at this distance--nothing.
The Tele-news! A simple joy tingled within Rusty as he gazed at the
distant planet. He was coming home. He had been far, he had a story
to tell--one that had long outgrown its intended bounds. He saddened,
however, as he remembered there would be no Skipper to hear his tale.
Spike came in.
"Gosh," said Rusty. "Is there anything to eat?"
"Not much," he answered. "We'll have to catch another liner before
long."
"Buy food?" asked Rusty, sleepily.
"_Buy_ it!" Spike roared with laughter. "What do you think we got this
ship for? Buy it! We take it--and anything else they happen to have
aboard. We scuttled one liner off Saturn while you slept."
"Lord!" thought Rusty. This was what Lothar had mentioned on Pluto.
They _had_ turned pirate. And he was considered one of them. They knew
nothing of the scheme that had landed him on the stellar prison. They
thought he was as they--another rat driven from the law-respecting
Universe.
Rusty could rationalize the dead men whose ship they had taken. The
ship had been available in no other way. It had been a fair fight. But
now it could go no further. Earth gleamed in the distance. His part
must change here; he had fought against Earth's laws, that he might
regain them. He must stand for them now.
"Spike," began Rusty, "there is something I never told you. I must
tell you now." And he told of the false crime that had brought him to
Pluto, how he was to have been released and his sudden abandonment.
He _was_ a fugitive, yes, in a way; but he must get to Earth--somehow
vindicate himself. It would be impossible if he added real crimes to
the pretension that had put him here. Spike must understand.
The chunky Earthian's face changed from surprise to rage. Then to a
deadly calm. "We better not let the others know of this," he said.
The Venusian entered. He must have been just outside the door.
Rusty saw his eye, the cruel glint there, knew here would be a climax
to his adventure. And he knew the result, while strength remained in
his body, would be well. He could not lose now--Earth was too near, the
end of his journey was at hand.
* * * * *
The Venusian stared at them with his single, beady eye. "Secrets!" he
sneered. "I heard. An Earthian informer! I'll fix that!" He drew a
short vib-pistol from his belt, leveled it in Rusty's face. His fishy
eye gleamed.
Rusty met the gaze. "Put away the gun," he said. Rusty was
experiencing a new sensation. He could kill this green thing without a
twinge of conscience.
"Put up the gun," said Spike.
"Ah, so you're with him, too! I'll get you both." The pistol veered to
Spike.
Rusty saw the bulk of Lothar squeeze the door behind the Venusian.
"Lothar is behind you, Fish," said Spike calmly.
The little green man slithered into a corner beside the door.
The Vulcanian stood there dumbly.
"Lothar," said Fish silkily, "these Earthians have turned against
us--will sell us to the Patrol--send us back to Pluto. The red-haired
one was a spy since the first!"
The huge Vulcanian stood silently, looking at Spike. His tremendous
arms dangled at his sides.
"Don't believe him, Lothar," said Spike.
"Shut up, Earthman!" snapped the Venusian.
Spike ignored him. "We aren't--" He never finished.
The gun spit at him.
Spike stared at Fish in astonishment. Then he fell forward upon his
face.
Lothar looked on foolishly.
The Venusian hissed softly between his teeth. The gun covered them both.
Rusty stared unbelieving. Spike was dead. He suddenly felt very alone.
Spike had been merciless, cruel, little different from the others of
his kind on Pluto. But he had been a man--an Earthian--a friend....
Lothar swung. Before the green man could squeeze the trigger. Fast. A
heavy arm struck the scaly hand, snapped the gun from a broken wrist.
The vib-ray fell to the floor.
Rusty watched him, motionless. Lothar grasped the green neck with one
hand, placed iron fingers deftly over the squirming head and--as a man
would pick up a marble--he plucked out the single eye. Rusty cringed.
Fish screamed. His reptilian arms flailed the air. Lothar slowly
dismembered him, tore off his limbs one by one. He yanked the head from
the twitching body--hurled the gory thing across the room.
Rusty stared with a strange fascination at the ghastly vengeance. He
was still staring blankly when Lothar came toward him.
"You Earthman! I thought spy! You die, too."
The trance left Rusty. The giant Vulcanian loomed over him.
"No," Rusty said. "No! Lothar, listen--!" He suddenly realized just
what was happening. He would be helpless in those powerful hands.
The creature reached for him. Rusty remembered covering a match between
Earthman and Vulcanian once for the Tele-news sport section. The
Earthian, champion of three worlds, hadn't had a chance.
He retreated slowly as the brute came on, bumped sharply against the
wall.
The giant stopped before him, little eyes squinting at him. The stark
deadliness of the face filled Rusty with an eery fright. Silently, a
massive hand grabbed his arm.
With all the strength of his 170 pounds, Rusty swung at the jutting
chin.
His hand smashed. The Vulcanian did not even blink.
He lifted Rusty, swung him around. His hold slipped and Rusty was flung
against the opposite wall.
Arising dazed, he saw the Vulcanian lumbering over.
Rusty had seen what had happened to Fish. It would be the same with
him. How could he fight a man he couldn't hurt? He went ill as his foot
slid upon one of the Venusian's severed arms. The star of Earth gleamed
brightly in the window and Rusty died a little death of sorrow.
The great Lothar plodded forward.
Rusty glanced wildly about, heart trembling. His shirt was growing wet.
There was nothing--he almost fainted at what he saw. Beneath his feet
was the weapon dropped by the Venusian.
Rusty snatched at the pistol as the Vulcanian swept upon him. He fired
into the hairy chest. The mighty arm came on, knocked Rusty from his
feet. Rusty fired again as he fell.
The monster's body fell across him, dead.
* * * * *
As he crawled madly from under the heavy body, Rusty saw the side
viewplates filled with a gleaming hull. And printed on the sleek metal
was a familiar insignia. It was a space-plane alongside--the Stellar
Patrol. Hope leaped like a flame. His long journey was ended.
As he got to his feet, a voice thundered in the room. "Coming aboard
for inspection!" The sound came through the walls by radio. "Open
space-lock or we blast!"
Rusty ran to the adjoining room, swung the lever opening the outside
trap.
It was barely opened when three men in space outfits entered. They
slammed the trap behind them, doffed their helmets, entered the ship.
Rusty could have embraced them. Earthmen, shaven and clean....
The men came in, guns drawn. "Keep your hands in the air!" cautioned
one with a captain's stripe. He searched Rusty, pistol against his
chest. The others went forward.
"Wait!" cried Rusty. "You don't understand...." His words died away. A
stolen ship--four escaped Plutonian prisoners, three dead. How could
they understand?
"What a mess," said one, glancing into the other compartment. "Looks
like this fellow saved us trouble--killed off his chums before we came!"
How should he begin? How could he explain the stolen ship? They would
never believe his story. And nine men had been killed in the ship's
theft. He had done his part in their death.
They searched the ship thoroughly, Rusty closely guarded by the officer.
"I am Rusty Carter! I--"
"Shut up. We don't care who you are."
The patrolmen returned.
"No one else aboard," one reported. "Three bodies, two rayed by the
same gun. A Venusian pulled apart--he must have been pretty annoyed
with him!"
Rusty was pushed into a chair.
"Okay," said the captain. "Talk! We know you got this boat from the
Great Moon near Pluto. We know you've been terrorizing the terrestrial
traffic lanes for days. You killed nine men at the Great Moon space
port. Where you come from?"
As calmly as possible, Rusty told his complete story, from the
beginning of his mission in New York to his awakening presence in the
ship. Hearing the story, he knew himself it was no good.
When he finished the patrolmen laughed.
"A good story anyway," said the officer, "but with its flaws. Editor
Russell's dead and you can prove nothing. You lie! You could not have
escaped Pluto, even in the fantastic way you said. And you might have
waded the sea but no man could survive the jungle of the Great Moon.
Then, of course, you and your bloody crew _have_ been preying upon the
commerce lines for two days, destroyed one liner. Even the bodies in
there could convict you of murder. Give up, lad. You're a goner!"
Rusty sought vainly for belief. They must believe him! He could not
return to Pluto again.
Without further ceremony, he was forced into a space suit.
"You know the law concerning piracy _or_ murder in the space lanes, of
course," said the Captain, adjusting his helmet. "Interplanetary law
authorizes _death at apprehension_."
It could not be.
But he was carried to the patrol ship, locked in a guarded cell.
* * * * *
He sat upon the metal bunk, head heavy upon his hands. It was all over
now. He had pled and sworn to no avail. His execution order had been
filed. After the customary forty revs of grace, he would die. They
would not even let him radio the Tele-news. Give up, his weary mind
cried. At least death was better than Pluto. But he was so near home,
his job completed. A priceless story would die with him. He felt fear
no longer and his unreasoning rage had passed. There was only a great
sadness, that he had come this far--to meet defeat. And at the hands of
those whom he had sought.
The man before his cell moved away. The guard was probably changing.
Another patrolman approached, stared intently into the cage. "So you're
Rusty Carter," he said. Rusty said nothing. No verbal torment could
touch him. "I knew Carter once. He was a fine fellow then."
Rusty looked up. He had never seen the man before.
"Yeah," the guard continued, "Carter saved my reputation once--when I
was caught in a bribery charge ten years ago, when I was on the ground
force in New York."
Rusty searched his mind. He remembered a civil bribery scandal the
Tele-news had uncovered many years ago. Several of the accused had been
released by his activities. But the man before him struck no chord of
recognition.
He was smiling. "You never knew me," he said, "but I knew you. I helped
send you a medal when we were cleared, by your efforts. It's too bad
you went wrong. Is there anything you want, in your last moments?"
Rusty almost burst with joy. Was there anything he wanted! "Can you get
a message through to Earth?"
"If this is a trick, you won't live to see it done. I suppose I
could--I know the radio operator."
"Send this. Quick! To the New York Tele-news office. Tell them what's
happened. Tell them to do something!"
He waited for what seemed hours.
The man returned, sent the other guard away, shoved a printed message
through the bars.
Rusty read with outward calm. His heart fell within him.
"_Carter legally convicted attempted robbery, murder. Appealed to
President, no avail. Nothing we can do. He was a good Tele-news man.
Sorry._"
He sank down to the bunk, the paper falling from his fingers.
Absently he heard the sound of marching feet in the corridor outside,
looked up blankly, saw uniformed men before his cell.
The door opened and he was led out.
Rusty shook hands with the guard, was marched down the hall to the
stern of the ship. It didn't matter now.
The older method of execution had been repealed, Rusty remembered idly.
Instead of merely dropping the man out of the space lock, he was now
placed in a disintegration chamber.
The lethal box stood before him, a small, compact cylinder of metal,
levers upon its side.
The door was opened.
"Anything you wish to say?"
A man was speaking to him. Did he have anything to say? What could he
say? But one should die with a flourish, a purple passage. Oddly none
came. He merely wished the business over. He could rest then. Did he
have anything to say?
"No, but you're wrong."
"Stubborn pirate. They all die innocent!"
The officer slammed the door.
Machinery whirred. It was very dark. Boy! wouldn't the public eat this
story up! But in a few moments, before his mind could know it, he would
be gone--body and mind--disintegrated into their component elements. He
would be a wisp of gas, floating out when the door opened.
The humming stopped abruptly. It was dark and silent. It flashed to
Rusty that this must be death.
Then the door opened. Would he float out? He sat there blinking in the
sudden light.
"Message for you," said a voice.
Rusty stared. A hand reached in, gently helped him out. A paper was
thrust into his hand.
He took it, read it again and again, but somehow his mind didn't take
it in.
"You have the apologies of the Interplanetary Patrol!" someone said.
Rusty read the message again.
"Evidence brought by Mrs. S. K. Russell throws new light. Record
just discovered in private papers of "Skipper" Russell. Carter
granted full pardon."
Signed: THE PRESIDENT.
Someone touched his arm. "The Commander requests your company for
dinner."
Then a blinding light suddenly flashed in Rusty Carter's mind. "Dinner,
hell!" he yelled. "Take me to the radio. I've got a story for the New
York Tele-news!"