They trailed a legend through the void,
seeking a world of freedom, adventure and
wealth. They reached their goal, a planet
beyond all planets, a weird land of the
Lost--where silent death prepared to strike.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mark Travers hoisted himself up from the floor. He leaned against the
supply locker, rubbed his aching jaw where the big man's fist had just
landed, and grinned ruefully.
The big spaceman didn't grin. He faced Mark straddle-legged and
snapped, "Who are you?"
"Mark Travers." His smooth gray eyes surveyed the man's bulk. He
thought he could handle him, but filed it for future reference when he
saw the neutro-gun in the other's fist.
"Travers, eh. A blasted stowaway! You come aboard at Marsport?"
"Obviously."
"How?"
"It was easy," Mark shrugged. "Your ship was small, dark, and carried
no insignia. I watched your men loading supplies secretly. Furthermore,
you hadn't filed your destination with Central Bureau. Just the kind of
set-up I wanted."
"You know a lot," the big spaceman's eyes went hard. "Are you a
sneaking I-S-P? Never mind. I'll see for myself!" He came a step
forward, and his gun got playful with the third button on Mark's
plasticoid shirt. Expertly the man's fingers went over him.
"Careful, there, I'm ticklish!"
"So's the release on this trigger, so just stand still."
Mark stood still. The search revealed no papers or identification of
any kind.
"I'm not I-S-P," Mark told him sincerely. "If I were, do you think
you'd ever have lifted gravs from Marsport?"
"Okay, fella. I'm Mal Driscoll. Sorry I had to clip you so hard, but
you never should have pointed that contraption at me when I stepped in
here. So help me, I thought it was some new kind of weapon." His eyes
narrowed. "What is it?"
For a mere second Mark hesitated. He glanced down at the small,
stub-lensed box which he had clung to.
"Why, it's--only a camera. New type, invention of my own."
Driscoll nodded. "Come on, stowaway. We'll go up and see Janus. No skin
off my teeth, if he wants to keep you aboard."
They stepped out of the room and along a corridor, bracing themselves
against the forward thrust of the rocket engines.
"Who's Janus?"
"Our Commander."
"And what if he doesn't want me aboard?" Unobserved, Mark pressed a
hidden stud in the black box. Tiny but powerful coils hummed to life,
quickly ascended the scale to the inaudible. Camera? Mark smiled to
himself and hoped none of the men here knew anything about cameras!
"You know the space-code on that," Driscoll answered his question. "If
it is so desired, stowaways are tossed into space."
Mark racked his brain. "I don't remember that in the Interplanetary
Code!"
Driscoll turned, grinned at him. "Who's talking about Interplanetary
Code? We make our own!"
* * * * *
Janus was in a forward cabin poring over charts on a glass-topped
table. Three other men were lounging there. Janus was six-feet-four,
with bulk to match. He had flaming red hair and an outlandish full
beard that made a vivid splash against the drab gray of his insulated
tunic.
He scowled fiercely as the two men entered. Driscoll pushed Mark
forward.
"Found this stowaway in the supply room. Says his name is Mark Travers.
I don't think he's I-S-P, though."
Janus' deep-set gray eyes seemed to bore through Mark, then they
flashed to the black box.
"What's that?"
"New-design projection camera. It--"
"Put it here," Janus indicated the corner of his desk. Mark did so with
some reluctance. This man was no fool!
The other three men had come down off their bunks and stood there
watching. One of them, Mark noticed, was a Martian.
"Now. Why are you here?"
"You seemed to be the sort of men I wanted to join up with."
"I said why?"
Mark wondered if this man would believe him. He didn't think so.
Nevertheless, he'd already made up his story so he drew a long breath
and told it:
"I was with Tri-Planet News Service working out of Chicago. I happened
to uncover a huge spacer contract graft. I got the names of the higher
ups, photostatic copies of incriminating documents--everything. But the
men involved happened to be _too_ high up; my story was squashed before
it ever reached the wires. I would have been, too, permanently, but I
escaped to Mars--"
Janus was laughing at him behind that red beard. Mark was sure of it.
He shrugged and didn't attempt to go on with the fabrication. It had
been a good try, anyway.
Janus said dryly: "Now tell me the real story. Or shall I tell you?
You received one of the typical BINWI offers. You're running away to
cool off, or maybe to keep your invention out of their hands. Is it
this--ah--camera?" Janus glanced at the compact box lying there.
"That's right," Mark admitted, marvelling at this man. "They made me
several offers but I wouldn't come through. The last one was 'typical',
all right--backed up by some of their hired thugs."
"Why didn't you tell me this in the first place?"
"I wasn't sure how you felt about the BINWI." Mark was still wary.
"The same as you do, although I've never had any contact with them
personally. My special peeve is the Tri-Planet Council, and the BINWI
is a subsidiary. Bureau for the Investigation of New and Worthy
Inventions. A laugh, ain't it?"
Mark didn't think so. "That bureau," he said, "is an octopus preying
on the inventive genius of three planets! Their spies are everywhere,
moving unseen, biding their time. You know the new anti-grav deflectors
the Patrollers are using? A man named Anton Kramer worked that out. He
had it near perfection when he suddenly disappeared. A month later the
deflectors came on the market." Mark's voice was bitter. "There've been
dozens of other cases. The BINWI usually gets what it wants, even if it
means murder."
Janus nodded. "There's a man aboard who'll agree with you on that!
Professor Brownell. Perhaps you shall meet him--later." He turned his
gaze to the four crew members. "All right, men, how about Mark Travers?
Do we accept him as one of us? A vote is in order."
"How do we know he's not a BINWI spy himself?" asked a small man with
piercing black eyes. "He seems to know a lot about 'em!"
"I'm convinced he's not, Ferris. We covered Brownell's trail too well
for that. Let's have the vote."
The "ayes" were unanimous and suddenly these men were friendly,
smiling, as they stepped forward to shake Mark's hand. They were good
handshakes, firm and calloused. Only Ferris' was reluctant.
"There's one thing more," Janus said quietly. "We'll need your picture
for our--shall we say--rogue's gallery? I insist on that. Perhaps I
can take it now--with your camera." He reached to the black box on his
desk, lifted it carelessly up.
* * * * *
Mark found himself staring full into the stub-nosed lenses. Sudden
sweat broke on his brow. His gaze lifted and met Janus' gray eyes,
straight and steady upon him.
"Wait!"
"What? Not camera shy, are you?" Janus' fingers seemed to fumble, but
his gaze never left Mark's face.
"The lens isn't set! It--it's special, you know." Mark stepped forward.
His limbs seemed wooden. He took the box from Janus' hands, and
pretending to adjust the lens, his thumb found the hidden stud and
released it. The hum of the inner coils descended the scale again,
became audible for a split second but only to Mark's ears; then they
were dead.