Putting her hand in his arm, she followed him to the street and they
drove to his cottage. He led her inside, seated her, and offered her a
cigarette.
"Now, Tinker," he said seriously, "where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"The Key."
"You have it as far as I'm concerned."
"You know better than that."
"You had it."
"No, you're wrong. Cal had it."
"I'm wrong--_who_ had it?" exploded Tinker as the words took.
"Cal," smiled he.
"You're Benj."
"Brilliant deduction, Tinker. Now, do you get the pitch?"
"No. You're trying to get Murdoch's Hoard too."
"I haven't your persuasive charm, Tink. The illustrious cryptologist
known as my twin brother wouldn't go into space for anything. You want
the Key. Ergo, unless I miss my guess, you've been talking and using
those charms on him. Don't tell me that he didn't give it to you."
"You stinking dupe."
Benj grew white around the mouth. "Your femininity won't keep you alive
too long," he gritted.
"I won't steal anyone's identity," she retorted.
"I'll wreck yours," he rasped. "I'll duplicate you!"
"Then I'll be no better than you are," she spat. "Go ahead. You'll
get a dead dupe--two or a million of 'em. I can kill myself in the
machine--I know how. I'd do it."
"That wouldn't do me any good," snapped Benj. "Otherwise I'd do it now.
I may do it later."
"Keep it up--and I'll see that one half of this duplication is removed.
Now, may I leave?"
"No. If you don't know where the Key is--or Cal, you may come in handy
later. I think that I might be able to force the Key away from him.
He'd die before he permitted me to work on you."
"You rotten personality stealer. You deserve to lose your identity."
"I've still got Cal's."
"Make a million of you," she taunted, "and they'll still be rotten."
"Well, be that as it may. You and I are going to go to Venus.
Murdoch's Hoard is still hidden in the Vilanortis Country. We have
detectors. We'll just go and sit on the edge of the fog country and
wait until we hear Cal's signal."
"How do you know he's going?"
"Assuming that Tinker Elliott could get more out of him than any other
person, it means that he said 'no' and is now preparing to make the
jaunt himself. That'll be a laugh. The home-and-fireside-loving Cal
Blair taking a wild ride through the fog country of Vilanortis, I'd
like to be in his crate, just to watch."
"Cal is no imbecile," said Tink stoutly. "He'll get along."
"Sure, he'll get along. But he won't have fun!"
Tinker considered the future. It was not too bright. The thing to do,
of course, would be to go along more or less willingly and look for an
escape as soon as Benj's suspicions were lulled by her inaction.
* * * * *
Cal boarded the _Lady Unique_ at Mohave Spaceport not knowing of
Tinker's capture at the hands of Benj. Benj was careful not to let
Cal know of this development, since it would have stopped Cal short
and would have possibly have gotten him into a merry-go-round of
officialdom and perhaps fighting, in which the Key would most certainly
be publicized and lost to all. Courts were still inclined to view the
certified ownership rather than the possessor of an object like the
Key in spite of the nine points often quoted. This was a case of the
unquoted tenth point of the law. Finders of buried treasure were still
keepers, but the use of a stolen museum piece to find it might be
questioned. So Cal took off in a commercial liner from Mohave at the
same time that Tinker was hustled aboard Benj's sleek black personal
craft at Chicago.
Cal, during the trip, underwent only a bit of his previous distaste.
His feelings were too mixed up to permit anything as simple as _mal
de space_ to bother him. He was part curiosity, part hatred, part
eagerness and part amazement. He found that he'd had no time to worry
about space by the time the _Lady Unique_ put down at Northern Landing
Venus.
With his rebuilt equipment in a neater arrangement, and the Key
inserted, all packed into a small case, Cal went to the largest dealer
in driver-wing fliers and purchased the fastest one he could buy.
He then went to the most famous of all the tinker shops in Northern
Landing and spoke with the head mechanic.
"Can you soup this up?" he asked.
"About fifty percent," said the mechanic.
"How long will it take?"
"Couple of hours. We've got to beef up the driver cathodes and install
a couple of heavier power supplies as well as tinker with the controls.
This thing will be hotter than a welding iron when we get through. Can
you handle her?"
"I can handle one like this with ease. I have fast reflexes and quick
nerve response."
"It'll take some time before you get all that there is in it out of
it," grinned the mechanic. "Mind signing an affidavit to the effect
that we are not to be held responsible for anything that happens with
the souping-up?"
"Not at all."
The mechanic went at the job with interest. His estimate was good, and
within two hours the flier was standing on the runway, all ready to
go. Cal returned from a shopping trip about this time and packed his
bundles into the baggage compartment. He paid off, and then took off at
high speed and headed south.
Eight hours later the fog bank that marked the Vilanortis Country came
before the nose of Cal's flier. He plunged into the fog at half speed
and continued on for a full five hundred miles.
He was about halfway through the vast fog bank when he landed and
started to install the Key-equipment for operation. The job took him
a full day, and he slept on the divan in the cabin of the flier that
night. He could have used the flier at night, for there was no choice
between night-operation and the thickness of the eternal fog of the
Vilanortis Country. In neither case could he see more than a few yards
ahead.
And while Cal slept, Benj dropped his flier on the edge of the fog
country and waited. The detectors were installed and operating, and
the black flier was all ready to surge forward on the trail as soon
as Cal's initial signal went forth. Having had more experience in this
sort of thing, Benj knew how to go about it. He'd not follow the trail
of Cal's signal, but would turn and follow the answering, sympathetic
oscillation from the resonant cavity at Murdoch's Hoard. And with that
same experience, Benj knew that he could beat Cal to the spot, and
possibly be gone with Murdoch's Hoard before Cal got there. He composed
a sarcastic sign to leave on the spot for Cal to find. That, he liked.
Not only would he have Murdoch's Hoard, but he would be needling his
hated brother too.
* * * * *
Tinker had curbed her tongue. What was going to happen she did not
know. Benj was quite intent on the mechanics of the chase and hadn't
paid too much attention to her except to see that she was completely
held. The idea of her, a sentient identity, being restrained with heavy
handcuffs made her rage inwardly. Yet she kept her peace. She was not
going to attract Benj's attention to her.
So she dozed on the divan in Benj's flier while Benj cat-napped at
the wheel of the flier. He would be up and going at the first wink
of the pilot light and the first thrumming whistle that came from
the detector. He wanted to waste no time. Running down a source of
transmitted signal was a matter of a few hours at most, even though it
were halfway around the planet. He chuckled from time to time. He'd
had Wally tailing Cal, and had a complete report on the flier and its
souping-up. His own flier was capable of quite a few more miles per
hour than Cal's, and Benj was well used to his.
And so Tinker dozed and Benj cat-napped until the first glimmer of
dawn. Benj shook himself wide-awake, and took a caffeine pill to make
certain. Reaching back from the pilot's chair, he shook Tinker. "Pay
for your board," he growled. "Breakfast is due."
"I'll poison you," she promised.
"There isn't anything poisonous aboard," he said, roaring with laughter.
It was more self-preservation than his threat that made Tinker prepare
coffee and toast. Working with manacles on made it difficult, and
she hated him for them again. She was carrying the hot coffee to the
forecabin when his roar came ringing through the ship.
"Grab on! Here we go!"
The rush of the ship threw her from her feet, and the hot coffee
spilled from the pot and scalded her. She screamed.
"Now what?"
"I'm burned."
"Coffee spill? Why didn't you put it down?"
"I wish I'd spilled it on your face," she snapped. "Mind taking these
irons off so I can get some isopicrine for the burn?"
He tossed her the key. "If you run now, you'll starve before you get
anywhere," he told her. "But stay out of my way. We're on the trail of
Murdoch's Hoard."
The thrumming whistle came in clear and strong as Benj headed into the
thick fog. And as they drove forward at a wild speed, Benj tinkered
with the detector.
He picked up Cal's emitted signal easily and clearly, but was unable to
get a response from the other source. He considered, and came to the
conclusion that the other resonator might be outside of Cal's range
of transmission and therefore inoperative as yet. Knowing Hellion
Murdoch's personality by comparison to his own devious way of thinking,
he knew that a world-wide broadcast of the response-signal would have
been unnecessary. A general location within a hundred miles would have
been good enough.
So having no goal but Cal's signal, Benj turned the nose of his flier
upon Cal's sharp, vibrating tone and drove deeper and deeper into the
fog-blanket of Vilanortis.
* * * * *
As for Cal, he'd awakened by the clock and had tuned up his resonator
before taking off. Immediately after making the initial adjustments,
and tuning the Key a bit, the response came in strong and clear. Cal
lifted the flier and began to trace the source. At almost full throttle
he went on a dead straight line for Murdoch's Hoard. He wondered
whether his signal were being followed, and suspected that it was.
He knew, however, that no one was in possession of the technique of
receiving the response, and therefore he drove at high speed. If he
could arrive before the others, he would be able to establish his claim
on Murdoch's Hoard, whatever it might be, or perhaps remove it if it
were not too bulky.
Once he established the direction of the response, Cal wisely turned
his equipment off. That would forestall followers, and he could snap
the gear on and off at intervals until he came close to the site of the
famous Hoard.
Benj swore as the signal ceased. But prior to its cessation, there had
been a strong indication as to the relative motion of Cal's ship. He
continued by extrapolation and went across the chord of the curve to
intercept the other ship at some position farther along.
Tinker smiled openly. "Cal isn't ignorant," she said.
"Turning that thing off isn't going to help at all," responded Benj.
"I've got Cal's original junk in the ship. I don't know the technique
of finding the real Hoard, but I've been thinking that following
the Key in Cal's ship might be possible. After all that's a cavity
resonator too, you know."
"Sure it is. But if you can't follow the Hoard resonator, how can you
follow Cal's?"
"Murdoch did something to his that makes it different," explained Benj.
"What, no one has ever known until that brilliant brother of mine
unraveled the code. But if the Hoard had been a standard resonator,
people would have uncovered it long years ago. There's nothing tricky
about getting a response from a resonant cavity."
Benj set the flier on the autopilot and went forward into the nose of
the craft with tools. He emerged a moment later with a crooked smile.
"All I had to do was to hitch up Cal's original junk. The detector is
running as it always was, but now I can shoot forth a signal from Cal's
equipment, stop it, and receive on my own detector. We had a fistful of
duplicate Keys around the lab. We can't follow Murdoch's Hoard, but we
can follow Cal--who is on the trail of Murdoch's Hoard."
He snapped a switch, and a thrumming whine came immediately. "That will
be Cal's response," said Benj cheerfully. "No matter how he tries,
he'll lead us to the spot."
Cal sped along in the thick white blanket of fog, not knowing that his
own Key was furnishing a lead-spot for another. Had he known, it is
possible that he would have stopped and had his argument when the other
arrived, or perhaps he could have damped the resonator enough so that
its decrement was short enough to prevent any practical detection of
the response.
But Cal was admittedly no technician. He did not realize that his own
resonator would become a marker. So he sped along through the white
at a killing pace. He snapped the switch after some time and listened
to the response from Murdoch's Hoard--as well as another signal that
blended with his. The latter did not bother him as it might have
bothered an engineer. Cal had no way of knowing what the results would
be, and so he accepted the dual response as a matter of fact.
It was in the third hour of travel that the inevitable came. By rights,
it should have come easily and quietly, but it came with all of the
suddenness of two fliers running together at better than five hundred
miles per hour.
Out of the whiteness that had blocked his vision all day, Cal saw his
brother's black flier. It came through the sky silently, skirling the
fog behind it into a spiral whirl. It came at a narrow angle from
slightly behind him, and both pilots slammed their wheels over by sheer
instinct.
The fliers heeled and cut sweeping arcs in the fog. Inches separated
their wingtips and they were gone on divergent courses.
Cal mopped his brow. In the other ship, Benj swore roundly at Cal, and
mopped his brow, too. And Tinker sat on the divan, letting her breath
out slowly.
But Benj whipped the wheel around, describing a full, sharp loop in the
sky. He crammed a bit of power on, and the tail of Cal's ship came into
sight through the fog. Cal saw him coming and whipped his plane aside.
Benj anticipated the maneuver and followed Cal around, crowding him
close.
"What are you trying to do?" screamed Tinker, white-faced.
"Run him down," gritted Benj.
"Kill him?"
"No. He'll glide out of power if I can ram his tail."
He followed Cal up and over in a tight loop, dropping into an
ear-drumming dive instead of completing the loop. Cal pulled out and
whipped to the left, and Benj, again trying to anticipate the action,
missed and turned right. Cal was lost again in the fog.
Cal waited for several minutes to see if he had really lost Benj,
hoping and yet knowing that he had not. Yet there was quite a
difference between knowing where he was and being within ten feet
of his tail. In ten minutes, and one hundred miles later on the
straightaway, Cal opened the throttle to the last notch and by compass
streaked directly onto his former course.
Benj streaked after him, the resonator in operation, as soon as enough
distance had been put between them for the gadget to function. Then
Benj started to overhaul Cal's swift flier.
Meanwhile, Cal tried the Key. The answering signal indicated that he
was approaching the site of Murdoch's Hoard, and not more than fifteen
minutes later the direction indicator whipped to the rear. Cal had
passed directly over it.
He circled in a tight hairpin turn and went back.
He forgot about Benj.
The black ship came hurtling out of the fog just a few feet to his
right.
* * * * *
Before, they had been approaching on an angle, which had given both
men time to turn. But now they were approaching dead on at better than
six hundred miles per hour each. They zoomed out of the fog brushed
wingtips and were gone into the fog again, but not without damage.
At their velocity, the contact smashed the wingtips and whirled them
slightly around.
Like falling leaves they came down, and before they could strike the
ground with killing crashes, they both regained consciousness.
Benj's ship was beyond repair. It fell suddenly, even though Benj
struggled with the controls. It hit ground and skidded madly along the
murky swamp, throwing gouts of warm water high and shedding its own
parts as it slid. It _whooshed_ to a stop, settled a bit into the muddy
ground and was silent.
Cal had more luck. By straining the wiring in his ship to the
burnout point he fought the even keel back and came down to a slow,
side-slippage that propelled him crabwise. He dropped lower and lower,
and because there was nothing against which to measure his course, he
did not know that he was describing a huge circle. His ship came to
ground not more than a half-mile from Benj's demolished ship.
He set the master oscillator running in his ship and then put the
field-locator in his pocket. No matter where he went, he could return
to his own craft, at least. Then he stepped out of his flier to inspect
the damage.
A roaring went up that attracted Cal's attention. He turned, and
started to beat through the swamp towards the noise.
Light caught his eyes, and he came upon the burning wreckage of Benj's
flier. Benj was paying no attention to the burning mass behind him,
nor was he interested in Tinker Elliott. He was working over Cal's
original equipment furiously, plying tools deftly and making swift
tests as he worked.
Tinker was struggling across the ground of the swamp, pulling herself
along with her hands. Her hips and legs were following limply as though
they had not a bit of life. Her face was strained with the effort,
though she seemed to be in no pain.