Erupting from hyper-space in the teeth
of startled DIC patrols and readying all
hands for a crash-landing, adventurer
Fletcher Pell could still wonder which he
dreaded more--the U-235 in the hold ...
or the strange girl by his side.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Pell twisted into the black maw of the alley and ran silently and
swiftly into its depths. His breath came in whistling agonized gasps.
Faintly he heard the footsteps of his assailant--now more clearly as
the latter turned into the alley after him. Vaguely Pell could make out
his silhouette outlined by the dim light that filtered in from the
street.
"Ugh!" Pell struck a hard surface at the end of the alley with a grunt
that he could not stifle.
Trapped! Frantically he felt about to find an opening. Softly and
steadily he cursed himself, trying to keep black despair at bay. Maybe
if he ... but the idea died in birth.
"Chuu!"
A blue lancet of flame arced over Pell's shoulder and struck the wall,
turning a small area into running slag. The heat and prickling of the
radiation Pell ignored. But the brief flash had given up his position.
Then he heard his pursuer laugh softly and he knew the game was up. He
felt rather than heard him moving in.
_Paumm!_
Pell's universe rocked in the reverberating thunder of the explosion.
_Paumm! Paumm!_
Twice more it was repeated and in the vivid flash Pell saw his
assailant twist and collapse on his face. His amazement fought with
a new dread. Someone had come to his aid, but with an ancient,
chemical-reaction, hand weapon. What did that mean? With his back
tensed against the wall, Pell strained his perceptions to the utmost,
trying to adjust his eyes once more to the darkness. Then he jumped.
"Pell!" It was a woman's voice! "Fletcher Pell! Come out--I am a
friend!"
He was aware of a faint outlander quality in her accent--as if she were
a colonial. Dimly he could make out her slight figure at the mouth of
the _cul de sac_. He moved cautiously toward her, stopping to pick up
the blaster of the fallen DIC agent. The comforting feel of its butt
gave him confidence as he walked toward her.
"Who are you?" Pell asked. She was small and lithe, and in the dim
radiance of the street lights he noticed that she had brown hair with
glints of spun-gold in it.
She did not reply to his question but put a soft hand over his mouth.
"Let your questions wait. We must leave quickly, else they find us,"
she said huskily. She led him from the alley and walked breathlessly
down the dark street, two of her steps matching one of his long ones.
There was a fast-looking black speeder at the corner. She motioned him
in and no sooner had the door closed than the speeder leaped forward
and melted into the traffic. The girl relaxed in the seat beside him,
the sudden easing of the tension making her hands shake.
"Who are you?" Pell asked, repeating his earlier question.
She looked at him keenly in the dim light that splashed through the
windows of the speeder. "Perhaps, Mr. Pell," she replied at length,
"it would not be too wise to reveal identities yet. I have a certain
proposition to discuss and I think it might be better to talk first
about that."
Pell shrugged and said, "As long as you choose to remain my unknown
benefactor, how about benefiting me with a drink?"
The voice of the driver replied unexpectedly from the front seat.
"Here."
Pell accepted a gleaming flask and took a long drink. "Ahh," he said at
length. "Do you have much ulcer trouble on Centaura?"
The girl looked at him, startled. "You are very shrewd, Pell. I hope
you won't become too clever for your own good."
Out of the corner of his eye Pell saw her hand creep for the pocket of
her jumper and it occurred to him that silence would possibly be wiser
at that.
* * * * *
The voice of the driver broke in from the front seat. "Miss Helmuth,
the DIC patrols are thick around here--we had better head out of town."
The girl looked through the plastine rear window and the dim glow of
the street lamps etched lines of strain about her mouth. "You're right,
Heintz. Slip out of the traffic and head for the space port."
Heintz grunted affirmatively and presently the black speeder emerged
from the traffic and roared out of the city, leaving behind the red and
black DIC patrols aimlessly searching the city for Pell and the unknown
killer of the DIC agent.
The girl turned to him once more and began to speak--rather cautiously,
it seemed to Pell.
"We have been looking for you for a long time, Pell," she said. "It was
only by the purest accident that we found you in time to save your life
tonight.
"Formerly you were a space pilot--in fact you owned a business. But
you were crushed by the Drake Interstellar Corporation, even to the
extent of losing your license. And now the DIC, taking no chances with
you, is determined to kill you. Because you are a hunted enemy of the
DIC _and_ a space pilot, we felt that you might be interested in our
proposition."
"And what is that?" Pell asked.
"If you are to remain alive," she replied, "you must leave Earth. But
you have no ship. I have the ship and also want to leave Earth, but
cannot without a pilot."
"Then why don't you simply hire a licensed pilot and be done with it?"
Pell asked, his eyes narrowed.
"No licensed pilot would accept the job."
"Then how do you know I will?"
"Have you followed in the daily papers the account of the Junta on
Centauri V?" she countered.
Instantly Pell realized the fantastic truth. Indeed he had heard of
the coup. Insurgents had successfully taken over the government and
were keeping the DIC warships at bay with planet-mounted blast rifles.
But speculation was rife in the daily papers as to how long they could
hold out with their limited supply of U-235, for it was the colonial
policy of the DIC-controlled Earth Government never to allow more than
a meager amount of the universal fuel to be shipped at any one time to
a colonial planet.
With growing amazement, Pell realized that the girl was an agent of old
Matt Faradson, the leader of the revolt. And her purpose here on Earth
was now obvious to him. He felt a quick rise in sympathy for her, but
kept it out of his voice.
"In other words, you want me to pilot you and a load of U-235 to
Centauri V?" he asked bluntly.
The girl nodded. "We have managed to secure secretly five kilos of
U-235 and it is now stored in the ship's cadmium and graphite vaults.
With it, Faradson will be able to stand off the constant skirmishing
attacks of the DIC until he can build his own refining plants."
Pell whistled softly to himself, his mind busy on the train of thought
the girl had presented. Of course, the Earth Government was little more
than a semblance of democracy now; its short-sighted actions of more
than two hundred years ago had brought it to its present situation
where it was little more than a mouth-piece of huge economic empires
like the Drake Interstellar Corporation, one of the largest.
When the planets of the solar system had been opened up for
exploitation, the Earth Government rashly granted proprietary charters
to the corporations to handle them. And even then, two hundred years
ago, colonial trouble existed. As a matter of fact, they prompted
Earth's decision not to allow the refining of U-235 anywhere except
Earth, although it could be mined on any planet and shipped to Earth
for refining. It was this control of the universal power source
that enabled the Earth Government to hold the colonial planets of
her interstellar empire in such tight rein. And the DIC practically
controlled the Earth Government, so there it was.
Faradson's Insurgents had revolted against that control. In addition
they wanted an equal and democratic voice in the Earth-Mars-Venus
Federation, as well as freedom to manufacture their own U-235.
* * * * *
Pell looked up at the girl thoughtfully. He noticed that she had
been watching him anxiously, apparently awaiting his reply to her
proposition.
"Okay," he said at last. "I'm game. Now how about answering a few
questions for me, Miss ... ah ..."
"Helmuth, Margaret Helmuth--but I prefer Gret. What are your questions?"
"That was one of them," Pell replied, grinning. "Why don't you get one
of your own men to pilot the ship?"
"Colonials are not allowed the mastery of space navigation or
piloting. It's a security measure," she replied simply. "They are
allowed to master space mechanics, however. Heintz is your mechanic,
incidentally." She indicated the man in the front seat behind the wheel
of the speeder.
"How about weapons? Why do you use such a cumbersome, ancient thing
like that pistol?"
Gret Helmuth laughed. "I see you know very little about colonial
affairs, Pell. Of course we are not allowed the use of atomic
weapons--that would make revolt all too easy. And naturally I could
not risk acquiring one here.
"You see, almost all of our technology is geared on a twentieth century
level. Only the DIC-controlled power stations and their mercenary army
on Centaura are allowed the use of atomic power and weapons."
Pell shrugged and looked at the dark countryside rushing past the
speeder. He had not known that it was really as bad as all that.
Obviously the colonials had good reason for their revolution. And now
it was up to him to run a DIC blockade and deliver five kilos of U-235
to the revolutionaries. Absently he put a cigarette in his mouth and
flicked the stud of his lighter.
Gret Helmuth's startled whistling gasp snapped him out of his revery.
Even Heintz grunted audibly from behind the wheel and the speeder
swerved slightly as it sped down the road.
Pell stared from one to the other with surprise. "What's the matter
with you two?" he asked.
"That--that thing you're lighting that cigarette with! What is it?"
Gret gasped.
"Oh!" Pell laughed. "I see you're not very familiar with Earth
technology," he mocked. "This is a 'Rippo Little-Blast Dandy Atomic
Cigarette Lighter.' Cute little novelty, isn't it?"
He flicked the stud again, demonstrating its pale blue flame. In spite
of herself, Gret shuddered. Heintz sputtered something in the front
seat which Pell didn't quite catch.