At that moment Gregory Malcolm realized what he must do. It was not
a pleasant realization. Greg Malcolm was an easy-going, a peaceful,
a placid man. The secretarial type. Sparks had called him a--what
was it?--a "stuffed shirt." Never, save in rare moments of dreamful
imagining, had Greg ventured to impress his opinions, his will, upon
the desires of fellow men.
But he, of all those now surrounding him, seemed to understand, fully
and completely, the crisis which now faced their refugee group. And
he--it was made apparent to him by the pompousness of Foster Andrews,
by the mulish petulance of Bert Andrews, by the aloof hauteur of
Crystal and Mrs. Andrews, by the suicidal "orders" just given by Ralph
Breadon--he alone was, in this moment of need, capable of deciding the
destinies of the Earth-exiles.
J. Foster Andrews had the acumen and common-sense to lead them--but
he had not the requisite knowledge. Breadon had the training, the
space-experience--but he lacked solid horse-sense, and his decisions
were too strongly flavored by his own savor of self-importance. Yet
if they, ten humans, were to exist for a week ... a month ... a
year ... until help reached them, someone must command. And he, Gregory
Malcolm, was the only one capable of taking into his hands the reins of
rulership.
It was a knowledge at once heady, intoxicating and frightening.
But--there it was! It had to be faced. And Greg moved, grimly but
methodically, to the accomplishment of that which he deemed necessary.
He halted the radioman with a gesture.
"Wait a minute, Sparks! Tommy, wait! 'Tina!" And he faced Breadon
firmly. "We are not going to do that, Mr. Breadon," he said. "It would
not be wise. We are not going to do it."
Breadon's brown features darkened with swift anger.
"What? What's this?"
And J. Foster Andrews waddled forward, puffing irate astonishment.
"Here, here, Malcolm! What do you mean? This is--hrrumph!--blasted
impertinence, sir! Insubordination!"
Malcolm held his ground, his pale cheeks oddly flushed.
"We are not going to do these things," he repeated slowly, definitely.
"Breadon--" It did not occur to him that unconsciously he had abandoned
the respectful, formal "Mr." which heretofore he had never ommitted.
"Breadon, your orders clearly indicate that you have not in any way
grasped the full implications of our plight.
"I have already warned that we should not make needless use of our
limited fuel and power reserves. Yet you've told Tommy to bring the
electro-stove. I have hinted that there are dangerous antagonists on
Titan, yet you wish boldly to tempt attack by cooking and eating here
on this exposed plain in broad daylight. Common sense should advise you
of the folly of eating what few food stores we hold in reserve, yet you
calmly command the preparation of a full and wasteful meal."
He did not make mention of the other, perhaps irrelevant but
nonetheless rankling detail. That never once had Breadon offered
to help in these doings, nor had any member of the Andrews clan
volunteered to assist; that the physical labor had arbitrarily been
assigned to those of lesser caste--himself, Hannigan, young Tommy,
'Tina.
"Therefore," he continued doggedly, "I, for one, am refusing to obey
your orders. I do so because I must. Call it 'insubordination' if you
wish, Andrews--" The older man spluttered incoherently, mauve-jowled.
"--but I would call it the 'will-to-exist.' The law of survival. I mean
to survive on this unknown, hostile planet. That can't be done if we
squander resources as Breadon apparently means to."
* * * * *
A moment of tight silence answered his outburst. A slow, awkward
movement stirred through the little group. It was, Greg sensed, a
movement of alignment. He could sense, rather than see, the unconscious
coalition of his sympathizers behind him; could see, without sensing,
the outraged drawing-together of the Andrews husband and wife, _fille_
and _fils_, beside Breadon. One there was whose bright, intent eyes
were clouded with uncertainty. Maud Andrews. Then, as if irresistibly
drawn by the bonds of blood, she too looked to Breadon as her spokesman.
Breadon's voice was a thick flame of wrath.
"So that's the way it is, eh, Malcolm! Well, this had to come sooner or
later. Might as well have it over with right now. Get the glasses off,
my pale young friend! One leader is all we'll have around here!"
He stepped forward, bigger, browner, heavier than Malcolm. There was
a rustle behind Greg; Sparks had stepped to his side, was pressing
something into his hand.
"This'll make him behave, Greg."
"Put it away!" said Greg coldly. "We'll have better use for
firearms later on. I'll handle this the way Breadon wants." Slowly,
painstakingly, he removed his plasta-rimmed glasses, slipped them
in a lucite case, slid the case into a pocket, removed his trimly
cut double-breasted business coat, handed it to the grumbling little
redhead.
"But look--" growled Sparks. Then stopped. There was a newness about
Greg Malcolm that stopped him. With the goggles removed, he thought
dimly, Malcolm's eyes looked different. Less soft and meeky-mosey. They
were like--sort of like chunks of grey flint. And Greg wasn't as skinny
as he had looked, now that you saw him with his coat off. He was lean,
yes--but there was a greyhound whippiness to his leanness; a tight,
spring-coiled sort of strength.
"Well?" said Greg. "You're ready, Breadon?"
Breadon's answer was a sudden, rushing charge. One of the women gasped;
there came the whipping splat of flesh striking flesh, then all noises
muted save the sound of two men meeting in face-to-face conflict.
Breadon's left jarred Greg back, his right swung wide and hard to put a
swift end to the dispute--
But found no target. For leanly, deftly, with pantherlike swiftness,
Greg was out from under the blow; his own left, probing sharply,
flicked once ... twice ... again into his antagonist's face, jarring
Breadon, shocking, stunning him, halting his bull-like rush and jolting
him back on his heels.
Maddened, Breadon whirled, seeking this will-o-the-wisp whose jabbing
lefts stung like salt in an open wound. He growled something that was
never completed, for knuckles bruised the word against his lips. Blood
sprang, saline and hot in his mouth; the taste of it edged his rage to
inchoate blindness, he flailed out recklessly, forgetful of anything he
had previously known about fighting.
And that was his undoing. Against his bulky charge, Greg could do
nothing but fight the kind of fleeting defensive battle he had learned
in long hours at the gymnasium. A maddened warrior like this was a
different matter, though; he was a vulnerable fighter.
Calmly and with infinite assurance, Greg stepped inside Breadon's
swinging arms, beneath his faulty guard. His right hand came up once,
sharply, to Breadon's jaw. The big man spluttered pink spray, lifted
his arms. Again Greg lashed out with his left, this time to the belly;
Breadon gasped and his mouth remained open, sagging.
Like the whipping length of a python, Malcolm threw that lean,
deadly-sure right again--this time squarely to the other man's jaw at
the spot where jawbone meets the ear. The blow cracked in the dull,
astonished silence like the chunk of a heart-biting axe on timber.
Breadon straightened slowly, numbly, in a meaningless reflex. The fire
went out of his eyes; their brownness dulled like sun-faded velvet.
Then he fell. As a tall building might fall. Crumpling ... the knees
folding first, the body sagging, the shoulders, the head helpless and
rolling. In sections. He rolled once and lay still.
Sparks Hannigan said, "Gawddle-mighty!" His voice was feeble, awestruck.
Greg Malcolm's fists, falling to his sides, uncoiled reluctantly. As if
they had gripped the fiery baton of his anger, the battle-urge slipped
from him with their unclenching. He drew a deep breath to steady his
ragged breathing, nodded to the wide-eyed 'Tina.
"Take care of him," he said. "Water. He'll be all right in a minute."
He faced the others, his manner an odd mixture of apology and
aggressiveness. "Breadon said there could be but one in command," he
said. "Let us hope that is definitely settled. For all time. And now I
will ask all of you to help. Our first step will be to strip the skiff
of the equipment we may need and carry it into the hills. In one of
those caves we will make our head-quarters."
But the fight was to have its aftermath. Crystal Andrews it was who
burst from the little knot before him to kneel at her fiancés side,
taking Breadon's head in her arms, glaring rage and hot defiance at
Greg.
"With you?" she cried. "With _you_, you--cheap, upstart bully? Not in a
million years! Ralph--Ralph, dear, are you all right? Did he hurt you?"
She jerked the water-soaked handkerchief from the maid's hands, pressed
its coolness to Breadon's sand-bruised forehead. Breadon's eyes opened,
dazed at first, then full of awareness, sultry, indignant, incredulous.
He moved to get on his feet again. Greg stared at him coldly.
"Get up if you want to, Breadon. But don't get up fighting!"
Hannigan chuckled. "He ain't hurt much. Just his conceit. It's punched
full of right and left hand wallops."
"That will do, Sparks!" snapped Greg. He looked at the others,
replacing his glasses carefully, a vague sorrow in his eyes, defeat
in his voice despite his victory. "You all feel that way? You still
refuse--?"
Crystal Andrews' cried out, "Talk! Talk! Will you stop talking and go?
Go to the hills if you want to. Leave us in peace. We don't want you
and don't need you. Go to the hills--and good riddance to you!"
The tiny gimlet of hurt that lay somewhere deep inside of Greg twisted
once more at her words, snapped, became suddenly cold and bitter. His
jaw set. He nodded to Sparks.
"Very well. If that's your desire. Sparks, there are four of us, six
of them. Take an inventory of all equipment and supplies in the skiff.
We will take exactly four-tenths of everything ... fuel, power units,
food, water ... everything. Get going. I'll help you directly."