WRITE IT IN BLOOD!
Feet pounded behind Ross in the darkness of the warehouse. Dropping
flat, he rolled till he bumped against stacked transit cases.
Now, from the office area, a hand torch flicked this way and that, its
hard, bright cone of light lancing through the murk.
Ross held his breath. When the beam passed over him and moved on, he
wormed his way swiftly along the cases and into the first cross-aisle.
More lights. More wary shuffling. Hastily, Ross made his way to the
next longitudinal aisle, then doubled back in the direction of the
offices once more.
Almost in the same instant, Pike Mawson's voice cut through the
stillness: "Stop! Both of you!" His words were clipped, incisive.
Ross froze in his tracks. His palms were slick with sweat as they
pressed flat against the transit cases.
Mawson again: "Get back here, you fools! Don't you understand? That
chitza's trying to feint us away from the entrance so he can blast out!"
From beyond Mawson, a second voice mumbled unclear syllables.
"Let him hide!" Mawson cut in sharply. "He'll soon tire of it. The
thing to remember is that there's no way out of this place except
through the office area; I made sure of that before we took it over.
So as long as we stay at this end, our fine friend can't escape."
A burst of guttural elation. Ross' pursuers drew back into the
brightly-lighted offices.
For a long moment Ross stood unmoving. Then, as the last echo of the
others' clumping footsteps died and the darkness closed in on taut,
vibrant silence, he turned. His face was pale and drawn, his breathing
shallow, his mouth a thin, grim line.
Moving down the aisle cat-silent, he groped his way to the place his
earlier foe had died beside the stacked plastidrums of steron.
Steron, with its deadly methane fumes, and high combustibility, and
flaring, 4000-degree heat.
Ross' lips twisted. Dragging out one of the drums, he jerked savagely
at the opener tab.
The cap tore away. With a momentary faint hiss of gas escaping, steron
fumes spurted forth in a choking, all-enveloping rush.
Ross grinned mirthlessly. With swift efficiency, he dragged out a
second drum and opened it also. Then a third ... a fourth....
Turning this last tank on its side, he rolled it full-tilt down the
aisle towards the offices, a trail of fumes and liquid spilling out in
its wake.
Now, drawing back into a cross-aisle, Ross flicked his flamer and
tossed it out onto the snake-like steron trail.
The fumes caught even before the flamer struck the floor. With a roar
like the gush of a power hose, fire leaped back to the three open drums.
The explosion as they ignited sprayed flame in a mad starburst that
illumined the whole central section of the warehouse. In seconds a
thunderous holocaust swirled roof-high.
Ross sprinted for the office area. Scrambling up a ladder to the first
catwalk, he peered down into the rooms below.
Already Mawson's men were running for the door to the street. But of
Mawson himself, and of Veta Hall, there was no sign.
Breathing hard, Ross moved on along the catwalk.
Now, abruptly, Mawson came into view, racing his grav-seat out away
from a spot where two partitions intersected, and into the open area in
the center of one of the larger rooms. His movements were jerky, and he
sat hunched forward in the seat, an air of tension heavy upon him.
The next instant Veta appeared, darting after the adjudicator. An ugly
bruise showed on her forehead. Panting, stumbling, she snatched at
Mawson's tunic.
But he dodged and flipped up an elbow sharply, so that it struck the
girl in the mouth. Then, as she sagged back momentarily, he swung the
chair in, and slammed a palmed paragun flat to the side of her head.
Veta crumpled to the floor ... lay there in a limp, still heap.
Instantly, Mawson whirled the grav-seat away again, racing it up over
the room's partitions in a swift, spiraling arc.
Ross held his position on the catwalk like a statue. Only his eyes
moved--first flicking down to Veta's motionless form, then away from
her and up to Mawson.
Still the grav-seat climbed. Mawson gave hardly a glance to the
roaring sea of flame that now enveloped the whole central area of the
warehouse. His face was lined and set, his eyes riveted on some spot in
the building's upper reaches.
Ross stared after him. Then, turning, once again he looked down at the
office area.
Veta Hall still lay unmoving where she'd fallen.
Ross started along the catwalk towards her.
Only then, as if his eyes somehow were drawn by some psychic magnet, he
paused in mid-stride and yet another time looked around for Mawson.
Simultaneously, the other's grav-seat came to rest on the second,
higher catwalk, close under the roof. Unfastening the seat's safety
belt, Mawson thrust his twisted legs down onto the walk, dragged
himself to his feet, hobbled clumsily to a nearby switch-box and pulled
a lever.
* * * * *
A faint grinding of gears rose above the noise of the fire. Twin
roof-plates slid back to reveal a skylight.
For the fraction of a second Ross hesitated. Then, pivoting, he ran for
the nearest ladder that stretched upward from his catwalk to Mawson's.
Above him, the adjudicator slapped shut the switch-box and began a
slow-shuffling return to the grav-seat.
Ross reached the ladder. Cat-agile, he swung up it, hand over hand, two
rungs at a time.
Mawson reached the grav-seat as Ross topped the ladder and scrambled up
onto the catwalk.
Now, pausing for a moment as he adjusted the seat's safety belt, the
older man--young now--gazed out across the holocaust, a sardonic smile
twisting his thin lips. Sweat streamed down his pale face and dripped
from his chin. Puffing a little, he swabbed his forehead with his
sleeve.
Behind him, Ross silently crept forward through the well-nigh
unendurable heat in a half-crouch. His lips were parted, the skin taut
and shiny across his cheek bones.
Mawson glanced up at the open skylight. His hand dropped to the seat's
arm. His fingers moved over the controls.
The chair lifted just a fraction, till it hovered clear of the catwalk.
Ross' eyes distended. Nostrils flaring, he broke into a headlong run.
But the catwalk vibrated under the impact of his weight. As if
by reflex, his quarry's shoulders stiffened. The fingers on the
control-arm spun a dial. The seat whipped round like a pointer on a
pivot.
For an instant, then, the eyes of the two men met.
Mawson expelled a sudden breath. His lips peeled back in a death's-head
grin. His free hand whipped up the paragun.
Eight feet, possibly, separated the two of them now. Not even breaking
stride, Ross dived for Mawson.
Nimble-fingered, the adjudicator flipped switches. The grav-seat rocked
back out of reach like a swing, then forward again in a short arc that
smashed the chair's base against Ross' shoulder with numbing force as
he sprawled off-balance on the catwalk.
Rolling with the blow, Ross went half off the narrow footway. Before
he could recover, Mawson spun the seat again. It swished down like a
powered sledge.
Spasmodically, Ross threw himself clear off the walk, dangling in
mid-air, suspended by the fingers of one hand only.
Above him, Pike Mawson's face contorted in a leer. The seat ground on
the edge of the catwalk, searching for his fingers.
Jaws clenched, Ross swung sidewise violently, letting go of the footway
with his one hand as he hooked on with the other.
It was like hanging from a spit above a literal inferno. Flames roared
below him. The draft that swept from the building's entrance up to the
open skylight carried heat like a chimney.
Again, Mawson tried to grind the grav-seat down on Ross' fingers.
Again, Ross swung clear.
Mawson cursed aloud, then leaned far forward over the front of the seat
and leveled his paragun at Ross' head.
Free arm flailing, Ross let go his precarious grip on the catwalk
and lunged upward towards Mawson, paragun and grav-seat. His clawing
fingers locked around the weapon's barrel.
For frantic seconds they hung there thus, struggling for the paragun.
Twice, Mawson triggered charges. Both times, they went wide.
But now Ross had a grip on seat as well as weapon. With a sudden jerk,
he wrenched the gun from the other's hand. It spun away in a long,
catapulting arc that ended in the flames below.
Like lightning, Mawson thumbed a button set in the grav-seat's
control-arm.
The chair came down on the catwalk with a crash, then bounced high into
the air, almost to the roof. Ross' nails gouged long tracks in the
seat's plastox upholstery as his fingers slipped under the shock.
* * * * *
Mawson spun a dial. The grav-seat whipped round in a tight circle that
all but hurled Ross clear across the warehouse by sheer centrifugal
force.
White to the lips, Ross clutched at Mawson's safety belt.
The adjudicator spun the dial the other way. Simultaneously, he caught
the hand on his belt by a forefinger and levered the member back so
violently as to make the snap of its fracture audible even through the
din of the fire.
Ross gave a low, hoarse cry. He smashed a fist down on the fingers with
which Mawson gripped the grav-seat's controls.
It was Mawson's turn to jerk back; cry out. Gripping the control-arm
with cable-taut fingers, corded muscles standing out along his
forearms, Ross twisted.
Metal screeched a protest. The seat rocked violently.
Ross wrenched again.
A contact-point snapped. Connections tore loose. Sideslipping, out of
control, the seat careened down to a precarious landing athwart the
catwalk.
Convulsively, Mawson beat at Ross' face--raking the cheeks, stabbing
for the eyes.
Ducking his head, Ross levered the control-arm still farther out of
place.
A sound close to that of a sob echoed in Mawson's throat. He pounded
Ross' back. "Stop it, you fool! Stop it, before you kill us both!"
Panting with strain, Ross paused for an instant.
Mawson, babbling: "Don't you see? There's no way left for us to get
out of here except that skylight--and it's too high to do us any good
without the grav-seat."
A small, spasmodic ripple of movement, like the passing of a chill,
crossed Ross' shoulders. He still didn't speak.
"Turn me in to FedGov Security if you want to, rack you!" raged Mawson.
"Do you think I care about that? Just get us out of this hell-hole
alive; that's all I ask!"
Ross raised his head a fraction; stared down at the sea of flame below.
Mawson again--a cunning, crafty Mawson this time: "Think of the girl,
Ross! Think of her, even if you don't give a filan for your own neck!
She'll roast, down there in that office! But you still may be able to
save her, if we get around to the street entrance fast enough."
Ross breathed in sharply. He started to straighten.
Twisting in his seat, Mawson peered back and down over his own
shoulder. Then, suddenly, he leveled a shaking finger. "Ross! Look--!"
Ross craned forward, staring.
Like lightning, Mawson whipped back his elbow ... smashed it to the
bridge of Ross' nose with the same savage force that had stunned Veta
Hall.
Ross lurched backwards.
Mawson spun the chair's control-dial. Wobbling, unsteady, the grav-seat
started upward.
Only then Ross, reeling, caught the seat's base. His upflung hand
slapped the control-plate. His fingers hooked around its edges. Again,
muscles stood out along his forearm as he brought sudden pressure.
The plate tore loose. The grav-seat dropped back onto the catwalk with
a crash.
Tight-lipped, with no sign that he so much as heard Pike Mawson's
shriek of anguish, Ross hurled the control unit down into the roaring
fire below....
* * * * *
It was quiet in this place ... so very, very quiet.
Only then, ever so faintly, a door-hinge creaked. Shoes whispered
across synthoflooring.
For a long moment, Ross still lay unmoving.
The whispering shoes drew closer--enough shoes for several pairs of
feet.
Slowly, Ross opened his eyes.
A tall, slim man stood beside the bed--a man whose dark blue uniform
bore silver comets on its shoulder-straps.
Ross straightened just a trifle. Voice faint, he whispered, "Commandant
Padora...."
The tall man inclined his head in a small, precise nod. "My
congratulations, Mr. Ross."
A muscle in Ross' cheek twitched. "Congratulations--?" And then, more
definitely, more firmly: "Congratulations for what?"
"For successfully completing your mission."
Ross said, "I didn't complete it. The formula--"
"The formula has been recovered," the Security commandant interrupted
smoothly. "Adjudicator Mawson told us precisely where to find it. Also,
he confessed to murdering Doctor Tornelescu."
Ross stared. "He _confessed_?"
Commandant Padora glanced to one of the blue-uniformed men who stood
behind him. "He did, didn't he, Mr. Galacorri?"
"He seemed quite eager to," the other answered dryly. "He had some
strange notion our rescue party might leave him on that catwalk if he
didn't."
The shadow of a smile played round the corners of the commandant's
mouth. "In any event, Mr. Ross, Doctor Tornelescu's life catalyst
now is in our hands, available for properly-controlled research,
development and use. And I'm told that Mr. Mawson undoubtedly will
spend the added years of life the injection gave him in a cell."
"I see."
"There's another matter also, Mr. Ross: the matter of your own
disobedience of orders." Commandant Padora's grey eyes seemed to study
the blank wall before him. "To set your mind at rest, I plead guilty to
using you uncomfortably like a cat's-paw. By so restricting you as to
precipitate insubordination, I temporarily convinced Cheng and Mawson
that you were a free agent. As a result, they acted rashly, without
covering their tracks properly. That's how we came to close in when we
did; to have men and lines at hand to drop down through that skylight
and take you off the catwalk after you'd collapsed from shock and
heat."
"I see," Ross said again.
"In consequence of all this," the other went on with clipped precision,
"the Federated Governments feel you've earned a certain recompense in
terms of honor." He held out a hand to one of the men behind him. "Mr.
Livingston...."
"Here, sir." The man laid a flat leather case on the commandant's palm.
"Stewart Ross"--Commandant Padora stood very erect now--"it is my
privilege as commandant of the Federated Governments' integrated
security agencies to present you at this time with our highest honor,
the Starburst Medal First Class for service to humanity above and
beyond the call of duty."
He leaned forward as he finished; took the silver decoration from its
case and pinned it to the breast of Ross' sleeper jacket.
"Thank you, sir," Ross said. "I do appreciate it."
The other eyed him keenly. "Your face doesn't match your words,
Mr. Ross," he observed. "Perhaps it's because you feel you've lost
something more important to you than all the FedGov's medals."
And then, pivoting: "Miss Hall!"
For the first time, Ross' head lifted from its pillow. The hand that
clutched his coverlet suddenly was shaking.
In the same moment, the blue-uniformed group behind Commandant Padora
parted.
And there was Veta Hall.
Pressing between the men, she darted to Ross; fell on her knees beside
his bed. And though her dark eyes streamed tears and her forehead still
showed its ugly bruised streak, never had her face been lovelier or
more radiant.
"Stewart--!" she choked. "Oh, Stewart, my darling...."
Ross' lips cut off her words.
"As I said," Commandant Padora announced to no one in particular, "Mr.
Ross' efforts gave us both the time and opportunity to take care of all
aspects of the situation at Mawson's warehouse."
It was doubtful if Ross and Veta even heard him....