"You failed to look in the emergency fuel locker. It was a tight
squeeze for me." He smiled tightly, surveying Ketrik's transformed
figure. "A nice job. Slightly tall for a Martian but, withal very nice.
Too bad all that ingenuity has to be wasted at the very outset."
Ketrik's muscles tightened. As though it were a signal, the other's
voice became brittle.
"Up! Up with those hands, Ketrik. I have a few questions to ask, and
then--"
* * * * *
It seemed ridiculously easy, the way Ketrik did it. He let his eyes
go dull. He sighed and raised his hands, slowly. He saw the other's
gun-fist relax ever so slightly. Then Ketrik's legs gave way and he
went swiftly downward. The captain fired but Ketrik wasn't there, his
powerful muscles had launched him forward, beneath the hissing beam.
His shoulder caught the other just below the midriff and bent him
double, carried him backward. They crashed into the controlroom door.
Ketrik's left hand found the other's gun-wrist and twisted powerfully.
A bone snapped, the electro skidded away. The captain began a curse but
it was cut short by Ketrik's right hand at his throat.
Ketrik pulled the man to a sitting posture. He gazed deep into the eyes
which were glazing over with pain. But it was not enough to prevent the
true color from shining through ... the color of dull, tarnished gold.
"I thought so," Ketrik murmured, and then his hand loosened, balled
into a fist that drove forward. The man laid back and went limp.
Ketrik's fingers probed the other's face. The man was a Martian, all
right, the features had been subtly altered. Enough to fool even Mark!
Captain of the elite guard! How long had the man masqueraded in that
position, Ketrik wondered--and then he shrugged. It didn't matter now.
He went through the man's clothes, found nothing of interest until he
came under the left arm-pit. There, next to the skin, he found a tiny
metal disk. He rose, went over to the wall-light to examine his find.
The disk was perforated with queer Martian characters. Ketrik knew
Martian, but he couldn't quite make these out. He bent closer.
A sixth sense warned him, or perhaps it was some slight sound. He
whirled. The Martian's hand had moved, was now grasping the electro
which he swung up into line. Ketrik's hand dropped and he fired his own
heat-beam from the hip. The beam cut a clean swath across the other's
chest, and he died without so much as a sigh.
"Sorry, buddy, whoever you are," Ketrik whispered. "Guess I'd have had
to do that anyway, though. When Dar Vaajo plants Specials like you on
Earth, we don't play for fun!"
He fastened the identification disk under his own arm-pit. Five minutes
later, from the starboard lock, he dumped the body into space and
without a qualm, rayed it to dust.
Then, champing with impatience, Ketrik allowed his "freighter" to plod
Moonward. He skirted within five thousand miles of it, then with the
satellite as a shield between him and Earth, he charted for Mars.
His brush with the Martian operative had sobered him. He began to
realize that Mark had every reason for alarm! The subtle tampering with
the Council's mental patterns, the placing of operatives in high Earth
positions, the secret scientific experiments on Mars--they all had to
tie in. He was sure of one thing now. Dar Vaajo, an embittered old man,
was making one last bid which would bring his race to its former glory
or else carry it forever to extinction with him.
There were surely other Martian operatives on Earth, and they
would have established a communications base. By this time they had
undoubtedly flashed the news of his coming. Ketrik smiled inwardly.
Very well--they'd be expecting him at Turibek, but he'd take the
indirect approach.
All the way to Mars his mind was at work. He was remembering days he'd
spent in that wild desert country of South Mars. From the tide of his
thoughts he segregated events ... places and people ... the canals and
cruel deserts, the customs of the Rajecs, those fierce black outcasts
from the cities of Mars. He knew that before he got through to Turibek,
he'd need all this. Already a plan was forming....
Twenty hours later he sighted a Mars patrol, six formidable spacers
athwart the Earth-route. They moved leisurely, in perfect formation,
and Ketrik knew their network of "finder beams" covered a large area.
However, the power-principle of the Frequency Tuner defied those
"finders." No challenge came through his open radio, which meant they
hadn't sighted him yet.
A solid black ship was strictly against the Space Code, but Codes
mattered little now! With the ebony backdrop of space behind him,
Ketrik's ship would be hard to detect. He decided to try a sneak past
them. He'd have to go into Inferior-plane, but he was sure he could
make it.
Quickly he changed course, swept into a sharp parabola that carried
him far below the Ecliptic. In a matter of minutes he was watching the
Mars-cruisers fade away into darkness. His present course would bring
him far over into Mars' dark-side, but that was what he wanted anyway.
* * * * *
Hours later the vast South Desert was rising up below him. Deimos had
just appeared, climbing with slow majesty across the sky; Phobos would
come a few hours later, pursuing its reckless course. Ketrik peered far
ahead to the horizon. There, against the dark downward curve, he saw a
faint glow that was not the glow of Deimos. He knew that must be the
capital city, Turibek, untold miles away. He made swift calculation. To
the right, then, would be the K'Mari Range. He knew those mountains.
It would be the very place to leave his ship.
He dropped lower and headed for there. The pale ghost-glow of Deimos
didn't help much. He switched to infra-red, peered at the V-Panel as it
lighted up and saw the unmistakable, serrated line of mountains about
twenty miles away. He had judged it that close! Ketrik grinned proudly.
It was short-lived. A Martian voice sliced through the radio, shrill
and commanding.
"Ground! You, below there--you will ground immediately or we blast!"
Then Ketrik realized that for the past several minutes there had been
a faint humming sound from above and all about him, scarcely heard. He
had relaxed in his vigilance, and the Martian 'copters had picked out
his trail--those fast-powered and deadly scouting ships. They too must
be equipped with infra-red!
Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, Ketrik was acting. He
leaped away from the V-Panel, grabbed the Control and threw it over.
Too late now! The ship responded, but sluggishly. The nose veered
sharply upward, trying to leap away--then the entire hull shuddered.
Power-beams! It must be a vast concentration of them, to stop Frequency
power! Slowly his forward progress was retarded. Relentlessly he was
being forced down into the Martian sands. Again the voice sliced
through.
"It is useless, outlaw! We've had you in our finder for the past five
minutes and you are in a network of Power-beams. Nullify your control
immediately or we blast!"
Ketrik cursed. Already his ship was straining at the seams. And now
he felt insufferable heat all about him, realized they were using the
beams. His stomach turned over as he thought of his rocket-tubes loaded
with fuel....
Quickly he entered the starboard lock; stood peering down. He was
dropping fast. Above him now he saw hosts of vague shapes, heard the
whine of Martian 'copter blades cutting the air. The metal under his
fingers was growing hot. He counted to five, slowly ... and leaped
outward.
It may have been thirty feet--or fifty. Ketrik only knew that he was
plummeting downward. He let his muscles go limp, and just in time. He
hit the sand hard, rolled over once and knew that no bones were broken.
Above him he saw the pale glow of heat-beams, saw the hull of his
spacer growing cherry-red ... and suddenly realized his danger.
He staggered up, went ploughing across the desert, still mentally
counting off the seconds ... "eight ... nine ... ten...." The explosion
lighted the sky for a hell-filled moment. Ketrik went hurling forward,
to land head foremost into the sand. Parts of his ship came thudding
down about him.
One fragment, red-hot, landed against his arm and burned it severely.
Other fragments scattered over a wide area. Ketrik was cursing now,
unconsciously using the mono-syllabic Martian in which he had versed
himself.
Then it was all over. Ketrik was glad of only one thing. His ship was
gone, but the Frequency Tuner had gone with it! The Martians would
never get that priceless power unit. He rolled to his back and looked
up.
It was not over! A few 'copters were descending to view the
wreckage--or perhaps to look for him. Had they seen him jump? Powerful
searchlights began criss-crossing the area. Again he staggered up, went
forward into darkness. Every muscle ached, but his eyes were alert for
the beams. Whenever one passed near him, he flattened into the sand.
After untold agonies, he judged that he was fairly safe. Far behind, he
heard the drift of excited Martian voices.
He didn't rest. He kept going away from those voices. They might still
be looking for him. He was utterly confused in his direction now. He
could be going toward Turibek, or toward K'Mari Range ... or out into
the vast wilderness to the south. One of those dark storms was sweeping
up, and Deimos was hidden. Soon the sharp sand began to pelt him.
Ketrik turned up his collar and ploughed on. He remembered that those
storms usually, but not always, came up from the south. He guided his
direction by that, and plunged on.
"At least one thing's settled," he muttered after a while. "I'm
relieved of the problem of hiding my ship!"