Pell was first conscious of time--a duration between the recurring
sequence of pain jags. Gradually the pain left him to be transformed
into a dull ache which encompassed his whole body. Every separate nerve
end seemed to shoot subtle, rapid messages to his cortex, announcing
that they were not feeling well.
He opened his eyes; blinked them several times to shake the web of
blackness from them. He tried to move. Pure, unadulterated anguish
backlashed at him. With a mighty effort he concentrated his will on the
task of overcoming the surging wash of pain.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, gritting his teeth as agony swelled his
head. The ship was a crumpled mass of smoking wreckage. Pell noticed
dully through one of the shattered ports that it had scorched the area
in which it lay and its path through the low timber was charred and
black.
Suddenly he realized it was hot inside the shock suit--very hot. He
stooped over Gret and picked her up. He tried the air-lock in the
waist; it was jammed shut. But further aft he found a gaping rent in
the ship's metal skin. Gently he lowered her still form through it.
He returned to the waist and unharnessed Heintz from the shock chair.
Pell realized that the fat man was too ponderous for him to lift;
hence he dragged him awkwardly to the rent in the ship and stuffed him
through unceremoniously. Stopping only to pick up the kit of medical
supplies, Pell followed.
He stripped off his shock suit and looked at Gret anxiously. He took
off her helmet and saw that her face was very pale. Gingerly he pulled
her out of the heavy suit and felt in the medical kit for a stimulant.
Her gold-blonde hair fell across his arm lightly as he administered the
hypo. A touch of color began to come into her cheeks beneath the tan
and she breathed more easily.
He turned to Heintz and wrestled for a minute or two with his huge
body, trying to extricate it from the suit. The fat man's body sagged
lifelessly as if his joints were made of jelly. Cursing under his
breath, Pell upended him and dragged off the bulky garment.
Reaching for his wrist, Pell found his pulse with some difficulty.
Heintz still lived, but the accelerated shallow pumping of his heart
indicated that something would have to be done in a hurry. Hastily Pell
jabbed his arm with a hypo and watched Heintz anxiously until he felt
his pulse pick up with greater strength.
Sudden reaction hit Pell and he sat down heavily. For the first time he
noticed their surroundings. The crushed wreck of the little space ship
was poised on the brink of a small stream and faintly Pell heard it
tumbling over rapids in the distance. The stream disappeared around a
small rise in ground and to the right and left at a distance of perhaps
five miles, Pell could make out rocky escarpments of a mighty range of
mountains clearly defined in the light of the late afternoon sun. The
air had a distinct chill in it and Pell was on the point of returning
to the ship to try to salvage some garments when he heard Gret Helmuth
gasp. He bent over her as her eyes opened.
"Pell ... did we make it?" she asked painfully.
He smoothed the hair from her face tenderly and grinned. "Yeah, we made
it. But there isn't much left of the ship."
She tried to rise from her prone position and half succeeded when she
fell back with a moan.
* * * * *
Pell laughed and said, "I wouldn't try that so soon, Gret. Better let
the corpuscles splash around before you do it again."
He made as if to rise, touching her hand. Instinctively it tightened
on his and he settled beside her again. The Centauri sky was a deep
cobalt blue and the wind was keen and bracing. He felt in his jumper
pocket for a couple of cigarettes and his atomic lighter. The novelty's
vicious looking, hazy blue flame made Gret jump in spite of herself and
Pell grinned.
At length the girl spoke. "Pell, I don't like the idea of waiting
around here. I mean ... well, I have a feeling that something is wrong."
Pell glanced at her. It was plain to see that she was worried and
uncertain; he could almost feel it as a tangible thing.
"How do you mean?" he asked her.
"Well ... for one thing, these hills. We're somewhere in the Cheon
Range and there were remnants of DIC mercenaries dug in here when I
left. They were holding out in an abandoned blaster tower around here
somewhere. If they should happen to be in the neighborhood--" She
shrugged.
Pell felt a distinct chill settle down the base of his spine. "If your
Insurgents are worth their U-235, they've tracked us on their radar.
They should be here any minute," he said reassuringly.
He rose and clambered into the ship through the rent in its side in
order to salvage some outer garments because the air was becoming
colder. When he returned from the ship to the place where Gret lay, he
noticed that she was trembling--and not from the cold.
"What's the matter, baby?" he asked, concerned.
She tried to smile at him. "We outlanders are a queer bunch, Pell.
We ... we hear things. There are men--many men down the valley and they
are fighting. Both groups want to capture this ship." She shrugged her
shoulders helplessly. "But--"
A memory of long-dead hackles rose along the back of Pell's neck.
Shadows were growing longer and in the west he could see Alpha Centauri
poised over the rocky rim of the mountain, ready to plunge beneath.
* * * * *
Suddenly he heard it. Far down the valley carved in the living rocks by
the small stream came the sound of firing. And it was moving closer. He
looked at Gret who had scrambled to her feet; evidently she had 'heard'
this long before him. Silently he handed her the huge automatic pistol
which he had taken from her in the ship and tightened his hand on the
butt of the tiny blaster which he had taken from the body of the DIC
assassin whom she had killed that first night.
Breathing hard, they dragged Heintz to the lee of their ship to shelter
him from the fire. Then they waited. In the waning glow of the last of
the sunlight the woods off to the right took on an ominous appearance.
They could hear the sound of shooting quite plainly now, interspersed
with faint shouting. It carried well in the air which had become
bitterly cold. Pell strained his eyes in the direction of the firing
and for an instant he fancied he could see flashes. But which side was
which?
Suddenly Gret grabbed at his arm and motioned violently behind them
on the other side of the wrecked ship. Pell swore softly and crawled
swiftly around the slag heap of the aft jets, blaster in hand. Dimly he
could make out figures hurrying toward the ship in the cover of the
trees.
"Stop!" he called.
A bomb exploding among them could have had no greater effect. They
began to run helter-skelter for the ship, the weapons in their hands
leaping into life. The ragged hack and roar of their machine-guns and
pistols momentarily stunned Pell, but, recovering, he let loose with
his blaster. Its cone of blue radiance was bright in the gathering dusk
and Pell knew he had given up his position immediately, but he had no
choice. The running figures seemed to falter and fall in heaps--then
his blaster failed! Rapidly he checked it and found to his dismay that
the tiny thing needed recharging.
All at once the attackers were on top of him--and behind him! The
thunderous bark of Gret's automatic was suddenly stilled and on the
heels of that knowledge, Pell was dealt a staggering blow on the head
from behind.
Rough hands dragged him to his feet and dimly he realized he was
surrounded by a group of ragged, heavily-armed men. They looked at him
curiously, fingering their weapons uneasily. Finally a large man with
gimlet eyes came up to the group. He had an air of authority and the
men fell back with deference.
The large man looked at him closely and smiled. "Pell! I might have
known they'd have hired you. What did you bring us, Pell?"
Pell reeled. This man was Raul Gutridge, the man who had crushed
him out of business for the DIC. As a reward, DIC gave him what was
thought to be a soft job, that of commander of the colonial garrison on
Centaura.
Before he could answer, however, the large man had turned on his heel
and was surveying the demolished ship. "Wrecking ships as usual, I
see," he remarked with mock pleasantry. "No wonder your license was
revoked."
Pell realized one thing and only that. He must keep Gutridge out of the
ship! He could not let him find the U-235. Because with it, Gutridge,
in spite of his few numbers, could mop up the planet in only a few
days. The big man had ruined him once before; he must not be allowed to
triumph again.
"Times are tough for unlicensed space pilots on Earth," Pell began
casually. "You've got to work to eat. So I took the job of running
these two through the blockade."
"What two?" Gutridge asked, seeing only Gret.
Pell cursed himself. He had blundered again. Silently he indicated the
fat man sprawled under the ship.
Gutridge walked over to the recumbent Heintz and kicked him a couple
of times, but without succeeding in arousing him. Then he looked up at
Pell again.
"Still can't lie worth a damn, can you, Pell?" he observed. "I trust
you will pardon me while I look in the ship?"
Pell watched helplessly as he entered the ship. If only the Insurgents
would arrive in time!
When Gutridge came out, Pell knew he had discovered the secret. He
moved slowly, as if in a dream. For once his narrow gimlet eyes were
wide as he looked dazedly at his men. Then he pulled himself up and
turned to Pell solemnly. All he said was one word, but it shattered all
meaning and all reality for Pell.