"Natives of Titan," Greg capitulated briefly. "He described 'em to
us before you came in. Savages. Cannibals. Humanoid, but no culture.
Funny physical make-up, like the Uranians. Don't feel the cold at all.
Murdering devils. From what he says, we're lucky they haven't found us
before this."
Breadon said, "Cannibals!" and looked sallow. The supine man continued
weakly.
"We had to leave Lipstead behind. He couldn't run. He drew a gun on
us, threatened to kill us all if we didn't leave him. We heard his gun
afterward. He must have got a half dozen of them before--before they
got him.
"Then Hawkins and me split up. It was the only way, he said. One of us
might be lucky. I--I guess I was. They followed him instead of me. And
all the time--" His voice raised feverishly. "And all the time, we was
only about ten miles from here! If we'd only known--"
Aunt Maud would stand for no more. She bustled between the invalid and
his listeners, shooed them away angrily. "Run along, now. This man
needs sleep and quiet. Go 'way!"
* * * * *
But later, as Marberry slept the sleep of exhaustion, Greg called a
council of war.
"Ten miles," he said soberly. "If those creatures are only ten miles
from here, we can expect an attack almost any day. Or moment. From
now on, we must keep a watch at all times. No one must leave the cave
alone."
Hannigan said, "You reckon they'll find us, Greg? Titan's a big hunk of
dirt."
"They're savages. Savages can follow the faintest trails of wild
animals, let alone the spoor of a frightened, sick man. They'll be
here."
Hannigan said, "There's one good hunk of news in the whole sorry mess.
Marberry said him and his companions sent out radio SOS calls for three
solid weeks. Till their radio run dry. Maybe somebody picked up one of
them calls. Maybe there's help on the way right now."
"Radio. Speaking of radio, Sparks, how about that crystal receiving set
you were working on? Is it finished?"
Sparks smiled sourly.
"Finished your sainted sandals! It's all washed up. Listen to this!"
He stepped to the hodge-podge of wires and coils on which he had been
laboring, adjusted it. From its diaphragm came dismal sounds. Squawks,
squeals, quavering vibrations.
"Static," said Breadon.
"Double it," gloomed Hannigan, "and add a thousand. The worst kind of
static. An electrical disturbance field."
Greg frowned. "But that can't be, Sparks. There's no electricity around
here. No generating plants or--"
"It can't be," snorted Sparks, "but it is. I don't know what makes it
act thataway. Maybe it's the H-layer of this cockeyed satellite. Sun
spots, maybe. Whatever it is, it sure gums up my machine." He stared at
the tiny set helplessly.
Greg stirred himself.
"Well, then we'll have to look forward to fighting this battle without
hope of assistance. Andrews, I want you and Tommy to inspect the
cave-mouth barrier immediately, see that it's in perfect shape and
reinforce it. Ralph, you and Sparks drive the livestock into the small
cave so they'll be hidden. 'Tina, the fuel reserve?"
"Complete, Greg."
"Good! I'm going out to stand the first watch. If you need me, I'll
be--"
At that moment a small figure, bristle-haired with excitement, came
scampering into the cave.
"Greg!" cried Tommy O'Doul. "Greg--they're down there! On the plain. I
seen them. And I--I think they seen me, too! They're heading up this
way!"
* * * * *
A half hour later, Greg, flanked by a tight-jawed little band of
compatriots, crouched in the bottle-mouth of an altered cavern.
The short time that had elapsed since Tommy O'Doul gave the alarm had
been minutes of swift preparation. What little of water, food and
supplies could be brought into the cave had been hustled in by eager
hands. The stock had been herded into the small, adjoining cave, and
boulders had been rolled against the cave mouth. The metal grill had
been dropped before the mouth of their own cave; it was behind this
they now crouched, through this that Greg looked out upon a lead-gray
sky and green hills.
"There's one thing," said Greg. "One break in our favor. It's starting
to get darker, and it's barely afternoon. We must be dipping into the
penumbra of Saturn. In a little while the darkness should come, and the
gales and the cold."
Hannigan said, "That ain't no break for us. Marberry said they didn't
feel heat and cold."
"I know. But they can't prevent the snow falling. If it comes down like
it did during the last dark spell, we will have an eight-foot fall of
ice between us and our attackers."
Andrews looked at the sky anxiously.
"But until it snows, Greg?"
"We fight!" said Greg grimly.
Bert Andrews, who had wriggled forward on his belly to the furthermost
ell of the bottle-neck, ducked back hastily, twisted his head over his
shoulder.
"Then we fight now!" he rasped. "Here they come!"
It was then that the Earth-exiles saw, for the first time, the dominant
race of Saturn's sixth satellite. To see was to marvel that Nature had
once again--as on Earth, Mars, Uranus and Io--selected the bipedal
humanoid form in creating a ruling race. Except for the thick, downy
pelts that covered these Titanians' bodies, the low, slanting, bestial
foreheads, the depth of breast and rapacious mouth slits, these
creatures were the counterparts of man.
But there were other unapparent differences, thought Greg. Marberry
had reported the Titanians impervious to heat and cold, which argued a
difference in normal body temperature and perhaps a difference in basic
metabolism. There must be sharp differences between man's mentality
and that of these man-like beasts, as well, else they would not come
seeking their interplanetary guests as the huntsman seeks his quarry.
A long, questing, silver-pelted line, they climbed the hillside path
to the flat clearing before the cave. They paused there, peering about
them suspiciously, nostrils wide and eyes searching. Greg realized,
suddenly, that these man-things were far down humanity's scale; so much
of the animal was in them that they placed more dependence in their
olfactory than in their visual sense. They seemed to catch the man
scent, the spoor they had been following. Their leader moved forward to
the grillwork. Hannigan's shoulder brushed that of Greg as he wriggled
forward.
"Now, Greg? Shall we let 'em have it?"
Greg whispered hurriedly, "When I give the word, all fire at once.
Remember, we have very little ammunition. We must make every shot
count. Ready?"
He glanced at his all-too-tiny fighting crew. Bert Andrews, old J.
Foster, Breadon, Sparks, himself. "Tommy," he ordered, "go back into
the cave!"
"Aw!" said Tommy--but obeyed. Greg glanced about him once more. Others
of the Titanians had slunk to their leader's side now. Their voices,
guttural and mono-syllabic, carried plainly over the few intervening
yards.
"Now!" cried Greg.
* * * * *
Five rifles spoke as one. Their conjoined thunder beat deafeningly upon
the sweating cavern walls, echoed and re-echoed, ripping at Greg's
eardrums. But another sound pierced the roar of gunfire. The shrill,
pain-laden screams of stricken man-things. The inquisitive leader fell
without ever knowing the cause of his death. A Titanian behind him
opened his slit-mouth in a flat, high scream, turned to run, tearing
at his gaping chest with claws that crimsoned as he tore. He took
three steps, toppled, crashed. Another body was beneath his own; still
another fell upon his.
Old J. Foster's lips were white. He turned to Greg, sickened and
trembling.
"We can't do this, Greg! It's slaughter!"
A weak voice cackled derision. "Don't feel sorry for 'em. If they get
in here, they'll show you what a real slaughter looks like. Malcolm,
have you got a gun for me?"
It was the sailor, Marberry. Greg said, "Go back and rest a while
longer, Marberry. We have no more guns."
"I'll get Tommy's."
"Rest. This siege may last all day, all night or for a week. You'll get
your turn."
Marberry disappeared. Greg said, "Fire! Keep on firing! They're
bewildered. Maybe they'll break and run."
Again the salvo of gunfire rocked the corridor, and again foremost
figures slumped to the ground, slicing the ranks of the attackers. But
now, peering through the grill, Greg saw that he had underestimated the
manpower of the attackers. They were not a dozen or two dozen ... there
were a hundred of them milling, now, in the small clearing, and the
path was still clogged with the silvery bodies of others lumbering to
the attack.
What happened in the next hour was such stuff as nightmares are made
of. At first Greg cautioned himself each time he pulled the trigger of
his rifle that he must make his shot count; later he fell into a dull,
scarce-comprehending state of mono-existence wherein he was conscious
only of the nerveless and repeated movements of his hands.
Aim ... load ... fire! Aim again ... load ... fire ... aim....
And at first there was little need for aiming. For the Titanians,
savagely prodigal of life, knew only one way of fighting--to press
forward in brute force, attempting to crush down the metal grill that
stood between them and their vengeance. To fire into that thick press
of bodies was sure havoc. The Titanians were weaponless save for the
cudgels they whirled about their heads threateningly; nor could they
break down the barrier so long as the succeeding hands of all who
gripped it became the limp, impotent hands of the dead.
Then at last even their dim, animal intelligence saw that this was a
losing battle. A cry rose and was shuttled from mouth to mouth. The
silvery figures, now gray in ever-gathering dusk, wisped away from the
cave-mouth.
"Licked 'em!" cried Hannigan. "They're running, by Peter! Golly, Greg!
Look at that pile out there!"
There was awe in his voice, distaste in Greg's eyes as he looked on
the motionless mound heaped before the cave. But Greg said, "Don't get
rash! They may be planning a new attack. Breadon--what's wrong with
you, man?"
Ralph Breadon grinned wryly.
"Fortune's favored child, that's me! They didn't have any weapons to
shoot me with, so I shot myself. Bounced a bullet off the grill. It
came back and pinked my arm."
"Go get it dressed. There it comes!" cried Greg.
"The new attack?" Sparks whirled.
"The darkness. And the snow!"
He was right. The threatened period of darkness had descended at last.
Once again Titan was within the shadow of its primary. And once again
the vast winds were keening from the hilltops, the great flakes of snow
were tumbling from a lifeless sky. Greg's voice was exultant.
"Now we're safe! In an hour or so we'll be behind a fortress of ice.
And I don't think they'll lay siege to us in a blizzard for a solid
week."
His triumph was short-lived. For even as he anticipated victory,
disaster beat on the portals of their refuge. From the depths of the
cave came a shrill scream, the shout of Marberry, and Tommy's frantic
cry--
"Greg! Come a-running! They've found the back entrance!"
* * * * *
The back entrance! Greg's heart lurched. He cursed himself, suddenly,
for having tried to accomplish too much in making their cavern
habitable. For by so doing, he had rendered them vulnerable in a spot
where there would be no barrier of ice an hour hence.
The back entrance. The archway they had broken out between their large
cave and the smaller one wherein Tommy's livestock was herded. Somehow
the Titanians had found the other cave, rolled away the boulders, and
were now attempting to get at their quarry from the rear.
Greg shouted, "Andrews, you stand guard here! One man will be enough.
The rest of you--come on!"
The first of the Titanians was pushing through the cleft just as he
reached the main chamber. There was a look of unholy glee on the
man-like creature's thin lips as he attained the cave. But it died
there, suddenly, frostily. It was not Greg who dropped him. It was
young Tommy, staggering under the recoil of a rifle almost as tall as
himself, firing pointblank, bouncing back to reload manfully, bawling
with youthful glee, "Got him, Greg!"
* * * * *
Then there was no time for speech, because the Titanians were pouring
through the breech in a howling, flame-eyed mob. For a moment Greg,
even as he fought, felt despair touch his heart with leaden fingers.
There was no grill here to bar the enemy's passage; the cleft was wide
enough to admit three at a time. He and his companions were outnumbered
ten, twenty to one.
But he did not, could not, take into consideration two vital facts.
The first was the indomitable gallantry of his fellow exiles. He had
expected that, in defense of their lives, their possessions, their
women, the armed men would fight to the last breath. And they did.
Pressing forward on relentless feet. Breadon, Andrews, Bert, Hannigan.
But Greg had not realized that the women, too, could fight. As in
a smoke-veiled dream he caught glimpses of their activities. Aunt
Maud and 'Tina, armed with huge ladles, dipping their weapons into
a massive pot of boiling water, flinging the scalding liquid at the
cold-impervious but heat-sensitive invaders. Crystal, no longer a
serene and radiant beauty, but a flaming Valkyr whose ash-blonde hair
tumbled about her, forgotten, gaining a vantage point at the very lip
of the opening, slashing ferociously at the attackers with a monstrous
cleaver. Enid Andrews racing to the wall, digging in Greg's duffle,
pressing something into his hands.
"Your flame-pistol, Gregory!"