"Yes."
There was a sudden cry beside Underwood and one of the crewmen dropped
his gun and clutched an arm in pain. Mason and Terry clutched him in
supporting arms and dragged him into the vessel. Underwood clasped
Illia's hand and hurried through the port. Behind them the last of the
men slammed the door and dogged it tight.
"Phyfe's waiting for you in the control room," Mason said. "We'll take
care of Peters, here. Terry had better stay for treatment also."
Underwood nodded and raced along the corridor with Illia. They passed
other men intent upon their own tasks. Some of them he knew; others
he had never seen before. He hoped that Phyfe and Terry had chosen
carefully. The remembrance of the biologist, Craven, came to his mind.
They came to the entrance to the control room. Captain Dawson was in
technical command, waiting for instructions to take off. Apparently
Mason was assuming charge of the takeoff, for his voice came through
the audio system as Underwood entered. Phyfe nodded assent to Captain
Dawson. "Take it up!"
* * * * *
Almost instantly, the ship soared aloft.
"Wait!" Underwood exclaimed, as he entered the control room.
Phyfe and Dawson looked toward the door. "There can be no waiting,"
said Phyfe. "We had almost given up you and Terry and Illia. The police
have been searching for us for weeks, and now that we're out in the
open they'll spare no force to take us."
"We can't go without the Stroid records," said Underwood. "Terry tells
me I've been elected to head this outfit. If that's so, then my first
order is to pick up every scrap of Stroid record and artifact that has
ever been found before we take off."
Dreyer came in and looked interestedly as Underwood spoke, but he said
nothing.
* * * * *
"Why?" said Phyfe. "I don't understand."
"There was a weapon," said Underwood, "a weapon that the Sirenians
were afraid of, which apparently was responsible for the power of
the Dragbora over them. If any trace of that weapon remains in the
Universe, our goal is to find it. It may be our one hope of defeating
Demarzule."
The others looked at him as if doubting his sanity, yet hoping he was
on the trail of a solution.
"But that was five hundred thousand years ago!" said Phyfe. "How could
we hope to find such a weapon that disappeared that long ago? We have
no clues--"
"We have the Stroid records. That's why I want them."
"But the Sirenians seemed to know nothing about the nature of the
weapon."
"We're not so sure of that. But even if that's so, there was the great
civilization of the Dragbora. We don't know that it is extinct, and we
know nothing of its location--but the weapon may be there. And the clue
to _its_ location may be in the Stroid records."
Dreyer nodded and gave a violent puff of smoke. "He's right, Phyfe.
We hadn't thought of it, but that may be our one chance. At least it
gives us an objective instead of just plunging into purposeless flight."
"I suppose so," Phyfe said doubtfully. "But I don't see how--"
"I'll take care of that. Show us where the records are. We'll get the
repository first, however; I want the whole thing brought aboard."
Underwood turned swiftly to Dawson and ordered the ship lowered beside
the temporary structure housing the repository near the Stroid museum
building. Then he stepped to the ship's interphone and explained their
maneuver. He called for twenty volunteers to man scooters and weapons
to cover those who were to transfer the records.
Below them, on the ground, the police forces who watched their prey
escape stood puzzledly as the _Lavoisier_ turned and moved slowly
across the group of buildings and began dropping again. Three deadly
police fliers hovered in the air about the great spaceship.
It was the fliers that Underwood watched with intent study. The twenty
men he had selected out of the volunteers gathered around the viewing
plates with him.
"The first objective will be to down those fliers," said Underwood.
"Then you will provide constant cover for those of us who leave the
ship to bring the records back. Go to your assigned airlocks. I'll
signal when the fliers are in the best position for one group of you to
attack it."
Byers, the engineer mechanic appointed captain of the group, nodded.
"They won't know what hit 'em," he promised.
"I hope so," said Underwood. "All right, take your stations and signal
when you're ready."
The men filed out of the room while the big ship slowly settled toward
the Earth. The three police fliers continued to move about with deadly
inquisitiveness. Then the sudden signal from Byers indicated the men
were positioned and ready.
Underwood watched the fliers. One was out of sight of the other two
near the nose of the _Lavoisier_. Underwood called sharply: "Number
three, attack!"
Almost instantly, a lock opened behind the unsuspecting police flier
and three scooters darted out, their riders firing a deadly stream
which came to a focus on the tail of the flier. A sudden blossom of
flame sent up a plume of black smoke and the flier nosed Earthward
without its occupants knowing what had struck.
But now the second flier was rounding the hull and the three scooters
were spotted. The police fired and one scooter plummeted out of sight.
* * * * *
"Number seven!" Underwood ordered.
A lock near the top of the hull opened and a second trio of scooters
darted out. The flier was beneath them, and its pilots had time to look
up and see the blasting fire that poured through the transparent bubble
over them. But they had no time to retaliate.
Fire began rising from the ground forces now and the scooter riders
were forced to dodge and twist to avoid being hit. At the same time
they dived close to the ground and sprayed the attackers.
From above, however, the third flier joined with devastating fury. Two
more scooters dropped. Underwood ordered the remaining scooters to
the attack. Simultaneously, they poured from the ship, swept over the
remaining flier in a wave of destruction and dropped it onto the ground
forces.
The latter spread out now and hunted for cover before the mounting
destruction of the scooter riders.
"Align cargo hatch number one by the repository shelter," Underwood
instructed the Captain. "We'll load that first."
The ship settled to the surface without a jar. The immediate area
around the shelter was cleared. Mason, taking charge of the loading,
ordered the hatch swung open. Portable cargo units were passed out and
strapped to the periphery of the huge, faceted artifact, whose bulk
almost filled the hatchway.
Sporadic fire continued from the hidden police, but the scooter riders
were holding it below an effective level without losing any more of
their own number.
Mason turned the current into the cargo units, and slowly the huge mass
rose from the spot where it rested. Then a G-line attached to it began
reeling in, drawing the repository toward the ship.
As the hatch clanged shut over it, Underwood exhaled heavily. "That's
the main part of our job! Another half hour to scoop up the records in
the building and we'll be through."