"Why not?" Trexel decided, twisting his cigarette into a tray. "We have
enough ships to take Earth and the colonies can't do much with their
supplies cut off. Any one of our ships can fight off fifty ordinary
ones. Perhaps we should begin before Adison's daughter does cause
trouble--since we can't find her to keep her quiet.
"Give the word for complete mobilization in an hour!" He stared at the
ceiling a moment in silent thought. "We'll pick off the Patrol ships,
have Earth surrounded by dawn in New York. When the city awakes there
will be a new ruler--of the solar system!"
"Yes, sir." The Martian smiled and turned to go.
"Wait," said Trexel. He nodded to Ricker. "On your way, take this man
out and shoot him." Ricker's heart jumped but he stared at the man
without a change of expression.
"Shouldn't you first find out if he's lying, Senator?" Molly Borden's
unruffled voice raised the fat man's bulbous eyes. "We shouldn't rush
into this attack unless quite sure--"
"I know where I stand," said Trexel. "I have men close to every
government on Earth. When I give the command, they'll take over while
my ships destroy all resistance. And why delay longer? We'll strike
before our luck changes."
Ricker stood up. "Listen, fat man," he said. "You hold all the cards as
far as I'm concerned. But as far's Earth is concerned it's a different
matter. You can't conquer a planet. Men will hide in mountain, jungle
and sea. They'll leap at you from every bush and corner. What if you do
burn a few ships--a few armies? What if you take every government? The
people will rise again. You can't rule by force alone."
"History," said Trexel, "proves that men forget. They soon grow
accustomed to new eras. They have learned to love tyrants before."
He waved his hand to Vanger. "But this is no discussion of political
philosophy...."
Ricker felt something jabbed into his side. It was a pistol in the
Martian's hand.
"No!" Molly Borden cried suddenly. "Don't kill him!"
"What?" Trexel looked up at her as if she'd thrown her cocktail in
his face. "What is this man to you?" His piggish eyes narrowed. Her
exclamation surprised Ricker as much as it did the rest of them.
"You're tired, Molly," snapped Vanger. "Perhaps you should go to your
room."
The woman's painted nails bent against the glass of the table beside
her. She looked like a tigress about to spring. Why? Ricker almost
forgot his own plight at the sudden change in her manner.
"Don't shoot that man," she said slowly. "I'm not--"
"Leave the girl here, Vanger," Trexel interrupted her with dead eyes.
"Maybe I'd like to talk with her awhile. You go ahead and follow
orders."
"Yes, sir," said the Martian, reluctantly. He pushed the gun into
Ricker, forced him around to the door as he looked back at the woman
with a puzzled expression on his dusky face.
They passed out of the room into the long darkened corridor.
* * * * *
Ricker's mind was an ant hill of thought as Vanger marched him down the
hall. His bluff had worked. Trexel feared his whereabouts was known.
But the bluff, in working so well, had precipitated an early start
of their scheme--and sounded taps for himself. Oddly, as the Martian
pushed open the door and the yellow light of the heat units burst into
his eyes, his own death didn't matter much, his dying didn't seem
very real. In his brain was the vision of those charred bodies in the
liner--they were real. And he could picture that same scene in each
ship of Earth as thousands of egg-shaped craft met them in terrestial
space, blasted a path of hell to the cities below.
Even his failure to "get the story" seemed insignificant. This thing
was bigger than himself.
Ricker felt the pistol withdrawn from his side, glanced back at the
Martian. The man's beady eyes fixed on him like a snake's.
As Ricker stared back, almost absently, Vanger's left fist whipped up,
banged into his chin, knocked him backward upon the hard ground.
Stunned by the unexpected blow, Ricker got to his hands and knees
shakily. He rubbed his numb jaw, gazed at the Martian through a quick
red film of rage.
Vanger took careful aim at him. "Die, Earthman," he said softly. "Die
with a blackened face, as all your brothers will."
Ricker didn't wait. The crouch he found himself in was not unlike the
position in four years of college football. He hurtled at the man like
a blocking-back gone wild.
Hiss-s-s!
White flames streamed over his head. White flame singed his hair and
clothing, bathed his face in quick burning sweat. He struck Vanger high
in the belly, carried him down in a perfect tackle.
Vanger's head knocked against the ground. Ricker's fingers shot to
his throat like a striking cobra. But there wasn't time to throttle
the man. He let him go, drew his right fist back just six inches and
stabbed into the Martian's chin. Vanger's head slammed against the
ground again. He lay still.
Ricker snatched the pistol from his limp hand, heard shouts and glanced
about frantically.
He saw men running toward him across the field, about ten of them with
others trailing in the distance. They must have seen the fight from
the factory. They came on like a drove of stampeding horses. Between
himself and the charging crowd, Ricker saw the ship he had arrived in.
It was about the distance of a city block away.
Without any definite plan, he jumped off the unconscious Martian, raced
for the ship.
To an observer at the side, it would have appeared that the crowd of
running men and the lone sprinter were speeding to meet each other. But
it was a match-meet for the space ship between them. The men apparently
inferred Ricker's goal. They increased their pace. Ricker dug in with
his long legs.
The ship wasn't fifty feet away. The men weren't a hundred. Ricker's
feet pounded the rock of the field like a race horse going down the
home stretch. The wind whistled in his ears, he scarcely seemed to run,
felt as if he was gliding. But the men were gaining. With each panting
breath, the distance between them and the ship narrowed. He saw they
would get to it before he did. And if they got there first--!
He remembered the gun, clutched forgotten in his swinging hand.
Without breaking his stride, Ricker brought up the pistol and squeezed
the trigger. There was no report. A stream the color of molten lead
hissed from the barrel, like tracer bullets from a machine gun. Several
of the men fell forward kicking like shot deer. Black oily smoke
curled up from the pack. The rest stopped. Then they scattered in all
directions across the field leaving five writhing, smoking mounds on
the ground behind them. The smell of burning flesh came to Ricker's
flared nostrils.
[Illustration: _Ricker squeezed the trigger. Men fell. Black oily smoke
curled up. The others scattered, leaving five smoking mounds behind._]
He was at the ship. He snatched open the door, leaped in and slammed it
behind him.
He didn't remember taking off. The next thing he knew, he was in the
air, circling high above the field.
Looking down, he saw men like little bugs swarming out of the buildings
far below. He saw ships pushed out on the field. The ships spiraled up
toward him.
* * * * *
Ricker's first thought was to head into the ice, cut on the heat guns
and bore through to safety. But no. It was slow going through the ice
and they'd catch him before he'd gone a mile.
Below he saw toy ships rising, growing like mushrooms as they gained
altitude. There were eighteen of them, he counted out loud. What chance
had he against eighteen? He squeezed his triggers testily, felt a
slight recoil as the hot breath of death licked out from all sides of
his ship. Well, it'd be one fine fight anyway....
Suddenly he noticed the radio before him. Of course! Quickly he
switched on, spoke into the transmitter.
"Calling Stellar Patrol, calling Stellar Patrol!"
"What is it?" The answer came so quickly Ricker jumped. They must be
close by. "Is this Ricker? Where are you?"
"Where are _you_!"
"At forty-four-five Neptune. The location you gave." His message
had gotten through. They were right over him, just a hundred miles
away--and they might as well be on the other side of the sun. "What's
the trouble? We've been looking for you since--"
"Listen!" cried Ricker. "No time to explain. I'm trapped _inside_ the
planet--under the ice. There's a cave here. Made with Adison's Heat
Unit. I've found out what's behind Molly Borden. They have ten thousand
ships here, plan to attack Earth. Senator Trexel's the leader--they're
coming up after me now. You must do something. Quick!"
"What? How? How can we get to you?"
How _could_ they get down here! Patrol ships didn't have these heat
guns. God!
Glancing down, Ricker saw the ships closing beneath him like a flock of
starved condors. In a moment they'd be in gun range.
"Gotta keep moving," he told the radio. "They're coming fast. Stand by
and I'll try to think of something."
He streaked up to the roof of the icy chamber, sailed fast toward the
far end.
And suddenly he did think of something--something so simple it seemed
foolish.
"Listen!" he yelled to the radio. "Turn your ships around. _Sit down_
on the ice! Give your rockets half throttle and let gravity pull you
down as the ice melts under you. It'll take a long time but I may hold
'em off till--"
A flash of white lightning streaked across his view plate. The ship
steamed, sweat formed little beads on Ricker's forehead, ran into his
eyes. One was diving in front of him. Ricker squeezed his trigger, saw
the ship flash into floating dust before him. He saw another coming
down from above.
With a quick jerk of the wheel, he zoomed up and over, wheeled into a
swift Immelman and dived.
The buildings, the field, the standing planes below whirled, surged up
to meet him like a nightmare of falling.
He pulled out of the dive not fifty feet from the tops of the
buildings, zoomed away again with the planes hot on his tail. They'd
followed him down, were streaming after him like a swarm of hornets.
For the next ten minutes those below witnessed the weirdest dog fight
in all flying history. There wasn't room to make a running battle of
it. It was dive, zoom, streak from one end of the cave to the other
like hawks fighting in a cage. Ricker twisted into every contortion his
straining jets allowed. And still those ships closed in relentlessly,
often striking one of their own number--which closeness of battle was
Ricker's only ally. The ships closed in slowly, inexorably formed a
ring of murderous heat around him.
It was a losing fight. Ricker knew it. He couldn't elude them forever.
One well-timed blast and he'd go down in a swirl of ashes and smoke.
And his constant fighting the controls to avoid the ships, to avoid
crashing the walls and the roof, was wearing his arms to dead aching
weights.
The ships tried strategy. They divided, Ricker saw, into five groups,
waited for him at each corner of the chamber while the others gave
chase. And these groups closed in with each wild dive he made.
Soon they would have him trapped between them. Well, the game was about
up. It was a matter of minutes now. He might as well do as much damage
as he could before they got him.
He banked over in a last dive, hoping only that the Patrol got in
before the ships saw them. Even the Patrol wouldn't have much chance
against these weapons. As he went over, saw the floor of the cave
revolve around like a side wall, a streak of lightning struck the tail
of his ship with an impact that jarred every rivet. The ship went
crazy, spun down like a shot bird.
Ricker hit the wheel with all the failing strength of his arms. More
by will power than anything else, he pulled out into a shaky glide.
But try as he might there was no response from the elevator jets. He
couldn't rise again. The ships fell like stones upon him for the kill.
Below, looming rapidly in the windows, he saw the long line of
buildings, the thick circle of ships resting on the field. He fired
full-blast as he passed over them. Buildings burst, split into halves
as if an earthquake had struck them. Ships disappeared in a wide swath
under him, hundreds went up in smoke.
The field fled beneath him, a deep smoldering trench following his
flaming guns. The house across the field and the silver dome loomed up,
raced toward him with the speed of a locomotive.
"The power plant!" Ricker suddenly yelled it at the top of his voice.
If he could crash that--!
With a supreme effort--he didn't know how he did it for the ship was
beyond all control--he keeled over into the metal dome as he left the
field.
The painted wall of silver filled his viewplate. Each rivet stood out.
He could have counted them. He saw the nose of the ship push into the
metal. The glass of the viewplate caved in upon him. The instrument
panel reared up, smashed him in the face with an ear-splitting
explosion.
The world splintered in a hell of sound....
Oddly, Ricker wasn't knocked out. When the ship stopped bucking, he
found himself sitting amidst the twisted wreckage of the controls,
smoke curling through the torn hull and his face wet and sticky.
His mind was numb, unthinking as he fingered a swelling lump between
his eyes. His fingers came away red. He crawled out of the ship. Wires,
tubes, warped transformers and machinery were everywhere. He heard a
hum of ships outside. It was dark in the room, the shadowed wreckage
reared in grotesque shapes like dancing demons. He couldn't move his
right arm and, looking down, saw that his whole side was stained with
warm blood. A feeling of coldness penetrated his dulled senses. It was
like a deep ice cave.
Ricker limped to the door of the ruined powerhouse, stared out upon a
scene like a polar twilight. Gray hulks, ships, bordered the ghostly
field and black silhouettes were the factory buildings across the
dismal space. Where the heat units had been were scarecrow towers, a
sputtering orange flame at each peak--like small dying suns. Their
heat was gone. The air was deadly cold, not the biting cold of a north
wind but the numb rigid cold of breathless freezing. Yet the cold was
alive, moving. It seemed to push against his body like air pressure.
The temperature fell degree after degree as he stood there, like a
thermometer with the red fluid leaking out the bottom.
Ricker smiled. He had destroyed the powerplant, the heat units were
dying. The place was returning to ice again....
He passed a weary hand across his clotted forehead. Although he had
destroyed himself, the work of Trexel was also ruined. It was worth it,
his thoughts came slowly. The hell inside Neptune would return to its
frozen gases.
How long had it been since he crashed? It seemed hours. But it must
have been seconds for ships suddenly landed out on the field in a storm
of rocket fire. As he grew weak from loss of blood and the cold, he
noticed a surging dark wave sweep across the field toward the ships.
Then the sound of shouts, screams, shrieks reached his ears. It was
the clamor of fear itself. Slowly he realized it was men racing across
the field, now white with frost. The men swarmed around the ships. He
could see little in the dim light of the red flares, could make out
only a writhing mass of vague shapes around the silver ships which
reared above them like huge turtles.
As he watched, the voices grew weaker, died to low cries of crawling
terror and despair. And Ricker felt himself grow weaker. The cold crept
into his bones, into his heart, into his brain. He couldn't think fast.
He thought slowly, leaning against the door. The icy walls of the place
seemed to be sliding toward him, the roof descending. The field was
cold as a snow-covered grave.
The voices out on the field were hushed. All was quiet, soundless with
the utter silence of deep hidden places.
He was lying on the ground beside the door, staring up at the black
glistening roof that was moving down upon him. He didn't think any
more. He was very tired.
A hulking shadow stood over him. He felt it more than saw it. He saw
two hands reach down. They dragged him across the field. He could see
everything quite clearly but his eyes seemed set in a vise-like single
focus. He noticed the twin tracks his heels made in the frost on the
field....
Then it was warm, a soft clinging warmth that seemed to flow throughout
his tired body--like life flowing into him again. He was lying on
something soft and comfortable.
He opened his eyes, saw a woman's face before him.
Ricker stared at the face a long time. It was a perfect oval, wreathed
in jet black hair, molded with deft yet full lips and a firm nose. The
eyes were green. It was Molly Borden. Her green eyes were glistening,
wet with tears....
"Why did you save me, Molly Borden?" he asked finally.
"I am not Molly Borden," she said. "I am _Dorothy Adison_."
* * * * *
The words meant nothing to Ricker for a moment. He just lay there
staring up at her. Then with a shock like cold water, the meaning of
her words crashed upon him.
"Dorothy Adison--!"
"Don't talk," she said softly. "Lie still and drink this." She put a
glass of warm liquid to his lips. He gulped thirstily and the stuff
darted through his veins like fire. Quick strength suffused his body.
He lay there, panting a moment, then slowly struggled up on an elbow.
His right arm was tightly bandaged with a piece of silver cloth. He saw
it was a strip from the woman's dress, which was in tatters above her
rounded knees. She sat on the end of the sofa. She was crying, softly
like a child.
"Dorothy Adison," breathed Ricker. "You lie! She was blonde--an
Earthian. You're Venusian and--It's a lie!"
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I dyed my hair," she
said.
"But your eyes--they're Venusian--slanting--!"
"Makeup," she said.
Ricker sank back upon the sofa. "But why?" he said. "Why!" None of this
made sense. Molly Borden confessed killing Benjamin Adison and now she
said she wasn't Molly Borden but Adison's daughter....
"You--killed your own father?" It was the only thing Ricker could think
of to say.
"Trexel killed him," she said. The phrase seemed to harden her again.
"I saw him coming out of the laboratory after father was--. But I
couldn't prove it. He had a perfect alibi. And after the inquest, he
tried to kill me--twice. I became Molly Borden to escape him, then
got the idea of following it through. There was just a chance that
confessing the murder might arouse Trexel's curiosity, make him get in
touch with me. I took the chance--and it worked...."
It was too much to believe. "You mean you acted suspicious, let the
police catch you and burned something to look like those plans? You
risked a life sentence on Pluto--!"
"It was the only way. I played free-lance thief--Trexel believed I was
at the laboratory after he left. I told him I stole what I thought were
the plans. I told him the police frightened me into a confession of the
murder--and they _were_ none too gentle."
"But why didn't you tell the police--before you left for Pluto. They
could have--"
"I could trust no one. At first I planned to tell at the last minute
but after his message came--in jail--I knew I couldn't. It was
delivered by the district attorney himself. He told me I would be taken
from the ship before I reached Pluto."
Ricker understood a lot of things now. It was like finishing a jig-saw
puzzle, when all the pieces are suddenly seen to fit. "Does Trexel know
who you are yet?"
"I tried to kill him after you left," she said. "But I had only a
knife--he was too strong. You saved my life when you stole the ship.
Trexel went after you. I watched from the window."
Ricker glanced toward the window. The light was gone and in the room
itself crept the chill of the darkness outside. The heat units were
dull red embers.
Ricker sat up quickly. Swift pain drove him back down. "We've got to
get out of here!" he said. "This place'll be a block of ice in no time,
air and all! We can steal a ship and--"
"Steal it?" said the woman. "There's no one to stop you. The workers
are dead. There's nothing to stop you--but the cold outside. It's
sudden death out there now. It's too late."
Ricker gritted his teeth, arose despite the lightning pain. He waved
aside her restraining hand, sat on the edge of the sofa till the
weakness passed.
"We've got to get away," he said. "We can't stay here. We'll die."
"I know," said Molly Borden-Dorothy Adison quietly. "We'll die. It was
far below zero when I went out to look for you. By now, the roof must
have lowered half-way down--it's probably 200 degrees below zero out
there now. But I don't mind the dying so much. It's that I've failed
that hurts. Trexel got away--father is unavenged."
Ricker had forgotten about Trexel for the moment. The thought brought
him to his feet and he forgot his pain. Both Trexel and Vanger must
have escaped. They were up in one of the planes. They had only to melt
through the ice. "Trexel got away--"
"_Yes_," a calm deep voice from the door. "And he will complete his
purpose!"
Ricker turned slowly toward the door. He heard the woman gasp.
Trexel and Vanger stood there. They wore heavy electro-suits, heat
steaming from them into the chill room. Trexel held a pistol in his
right hand.
"Notice the window, telenewsman," he said.
Ricker turned to the window, saw bright daylight outside. The heat
units were on again--!
* * * * *
"Yes," said Trexel. "The units are working. Did you think we would
depend on a single source of power? It took a few moments but it was
simple to switch on an auxiliary plant. And most of the men will
revive, the cold struck them so quickly. Before you know it, everything
will be as good as new." He smiled his fat, pasty smile. "Watch them,
Vanger, while I get out of this suit."
The Martian pulled his own gun, Trexel struggled out of the hot
clothing, dropped it to the floor and sat down heavily. Ricker stared
as if he'd been struck with a mallet.
"Now," the fat man said, pouring a drink, "I'd like to clear up just
one minor point before we dispense with you two. Did Ricker know who
you were all the time, Miss Adison?"
The woman didn't answer, looked at him like a caged animal. But to
Ricker there flooded a sudden ray of hope. Trexel might still believe
his stall about the President knowing his whereabouts. Did he _still_
have an ace in the hole?
"Yes," he spoke for the woman, "Miss Adison and I have been working
together for weeks. But that doesn't matter, Trexel. In a few moments
your hide-out'll be swarming with Patrol ships. They know where I am
and they'll be here any moment."
The fat man laughed. "Still trying to pull that stuff," he scoffed.
"Well, it doesn't go over again. I contacted Washington and my agents
tell me there's no truth whatsoever in your story. No one knows where
you are. You were both working entirely on your own." He raised his
pistol. "But enough of this!"
"Wait," said Vanger. He coughed behind his hand. "Why shoot the woman?
Give her to me and she'll never speak a word of what she's seen if I
have to cut her tongue out."
Trexel smiled. "So you, too, have been attracted by Miss Borden's
beauty. But perhaps you won't like her, so well as Dorothy Adison,
Vanger. Have you thought how she would look without that yellow dye on
her skin, without that makeup on her eyes and with Dorothy Adison's
blonde hair?"
"I like blondes," said Vanger. "And if I remember rightly, Dorothy
Adison was a beauty in her own right."
"Well," said Trexel. "A dead woman's little use to anyone. If you'll
remember about that tongue-cutting--"
Vanger laughed till he began coughing.
Trexel raised the gun, pointed it full in Ricker's face and laughed.
Ricker could see his fat knuckle whiten as it squeezed the trigger.
Molly Borden screamed, flung herself in front of him. The Martian
jerked her aside. Ricker's good left arm came up. Then it halted in
mid-air.
To his ears came a sound like bubbling water to a man dying of thirst.
He didn't believe it at first, paused, lips parted, listening. Then his
eyes danced with a wild light.
Trexel heard it too. His face was like chalk. He stood there with the
gun still poised, a great bear-like statue. It was the hum of rockets!
Not the rockets of Trexel's ships, the jets of the Stellar Patrol. It
was! The Patrol had gotten through!
Trexel stood like a man of stone. For a full ten seconds he didn't move.
Ricker knocked the woman aside, dropped to the floor. The gun flamed.
Trexel pulled the trigger wildly. Ricker snatched the glass table from
the floor beside him, hurled it up into the man's ghastly face. His
thick mouth burst into a red spray as glass crashed. He fought to get
rid of the table, its jagged edges cut into his arms and face. Ricker
hurled a chair. It hit the man's head like a pole striking cement.
Trexel's gun fell from his hand, thudded on the floor. He sagged down
beside the wall.
The Martian didn't pull his gun. He stood, staring, listening to the
cries, the sound of the planes and the guns outside. He didn't appear
to see what was going on in the room. Suddenly he whirled, bolted to
the door.
In the heat of his fury, Ricker flew after him.
Vanger dashed down the corridor, Ricker ten feet behind. He went
through the door, started out upon the field. As Ricker reached the
door, he saw Vanger stop suddenly, look up. The din of the Patrol boats
was thunder in the echoing hollow. The air was filled with them. The
field was littered with men running, falling and lying still. A boat
swooped down toward the lone Martian standing there, fell like a bird
of prey. Vanger started to run back toward the building. Tat, tat, tat!
A long flaming line followed him, slowly, like a curse. Little puffs
of dust spurted around him. The puffs stopped. The Martian halted. He
stared at Ricker in the doorway and his face was puzzled. He coughed
and his chin, his shirt became cherry-red. Then he crumpled to the
ground.
Ricker turned, walked slowly back to the room.
At the door, he paused. He saw Dorothy Adison standing over the
motionless hulk of Trexel. She swayed, one hand at her throat. In her
other hand was Trexel's gun. Where the head of the fat man had been was
a dark, dripping ball of horror.
The woman dropped the pistol. It struck the man's body, rolled to the
floor.
Then she was suddenly in Ricker's arms.
* * * * *
Lounging deep in his red-leather chair, Bill Ricker squinted out at the
port as the sleek space ship streamed through the darkness. He could
see nothing outside but a big, humorous-eyed young man who was his own
reflection and the green tinted star that was Earth--home.
"I hear you got a raise," said the tall blonde women in the seat beside
him.
"Yep," said Ricker. "The Chief tried to get out of it but since the
government offered his star reporter twice as much, he had to give in."
He stared at the woman queerly. With her golden hair, her clear emerald
eyes and perfect features she possessed a strange loveliness.
"Madam," he said. "What do you plan to do with your life? Have you no
aims, no ideals, no guiding light?"
"Nope," she said. "I'll just follow you around, I suppose."
"And what if I get tired of it?"