"Hold!" cried a thunderous voice. "'Stay now thine hand from the sword,
yea, loose not thine arrow from the bow--else by My might shall I crush
thee to the dust, truly My lightnings shall wither thee with fire!'
Thus saith my Lord God which is Jehovah!"
A vast, awed silence fell suddenly upon the room, a paralysis seized
all forms and held them motionless. Amborg stayed his finger. All eyes
sought the doorway. And there, covering the whole of the Cosmobar with
the ugliest but most efficient looking piece of private ordnance Chip
had seen in his life, stood a man. A tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in
rusty black; a lean-jawed, hawk-eyed man with tumbling locks of silver
and blazing eyes.
A whisper arose from men's lips. A whisper at once respectful
and--fearful.
"It's Salvation! Salvation Smith!"
* * * * *
For a long, dramatic moment the ol man stood there in the doorway;
then, satisfied that all motion had stopped, he stepped forward into
the room. Chip knew, now, who--and what--he was. "Salvation" Smith,
sin-driving missionary of the Wastelands, was a legendary, almost
fabulous, figure of the Martian scene.
A devoutly religious man with the heart and soul of a pioneer, he had
taken upon himself the mission of carrying to the savage outland tribes
the story of the God he worshipped. That this God was Him of the Old
Testament, a God of wrath and vengeance, fire and flame, was evidenced
by those methods Salvation sometimes employed to make his message
acceptable to uncivilized breasts. In addition to being the most pious
man on Mars, Salvation was also reputed to be the best shot!
Earth's softhanded ecclesiastics did not altogether approve of their
wayward missionary's reputation, but had to concede that he, working
unaided and alone, had done more to bring the light to Mars than the
rest of their emissaries as a group.
Thus Salvation Smith, who stared now at the corpses on the floor and
muttered beneath his breath a prayer so hot and violent as to be almost
blasphemous.
There came a shrill bleat, and Xuerl, proprietor of the infamous
Cosmobar, minced across the floor, grotesque in the rigid habiliments
that lent him a humanoid shape.
"Sssalvation," he pleaded, "Thisss wasss none of my doing, sssir! I
have kept the peace, as I promisssed--"
"Silence!" roared the old man, and frowned. "Your foul den is a stench
in the nostrils of Heaven. I am tiring swiftly of your iniquitous ways,
Xuerl! One day I--shall--who started this, anyway?" he demanded.
"Thisss man!" Xuerl pointed a quavering tentacle at Chip. Salvation
gazed at the young man sternly.
"You are new around here. What is your name?"
"Chip Warren. I'm just out from Earth a week or so ago. Free-lance
prospector. But--but I didn't start this, sir. I merely interfered when
that man and his thugs tried to steal a ball of ekalastron from this
dead miner--"
Chip paused suddenly, staring at the drunken miner.
"But he's still alive! I thought--"
* * * * *
Salvation was at his side in an instant. They both kneeled beside the
miner, whose eyes had flickered open. He was no longer influenced by
drink. His eyes were clear with prevision of a longer flight than
he had ever known. For a moment he struggled for breath. There was
recognition in his feeble tones.
"S-salvation--"
"Peace, my son. We will take you to a hospital."
"N-never mind that, Padre. It's too late. But the ekalastron--"
"You stole it, my son? You wish to confess?"
"N-no, Padre! Not stolen. I found it. A mine--" His breath was coming
in tiny, tortured gasps; he spoke more swiftly as if aware that he must
tell his secret ere silence claim him. "Danger ... on Titania! The
caves ... natives ... and the furnace of flame ... beware!"
"But _he_ survived!" Chip burst in. "He got some and returned. Ask him
how, Padre!"
The miner's head moved slightly as if to signify he understood the
query, but even as his lips moved to frame an answer, a swift, cold
shadow frosted his eyes with glaze. A moment later his breath stopped.
Then it shuddered back as with a violent effort the dying man dragged
himself back from death itself. A convulsion shook him. He cried weakly
the single word:
"_Shadrach!_"
Then a blood-specked spume gushed from his lips and he lay still. "May
the Lord have mercy on his soul!" begged Salvation Smith. He pushed
Chip gently away, fumbled at the dead man's clothing, arranging it more
neatly, then rose.
"He is gone," he told the spellbound assembly. "He is gone, bearing
with him to the world beyond the secret for which you jackals strove.
Thus be it, O Lord God of Hosts!"
But one man did not accept this as final. That man was Blaze Amborg
who, bolstered now by his hard-bitten group of outlaws, strode forward
belligerently.
"Not so fast, psalm-singer! He and I were partners. Anything he had
belongs to _me_ now!" He bent over and with a jerk disarranged the
clothing Salvation had smoothed. "And by the Comet, I'm going to have
it--" His hands moved with deft assurance, then with tense, hardening
suspicion. "It's gone!" He wheeled to face Chip. "You stole it! You--"
But the old missionary barred his rush with a steel forearm. "Slowly,
my friend! What is gone?"
"The ball of ekalastron! It's worth a fortune, and it's mine! This
snoopy young thief--"
Salvation turned to Chip sternly. "Well, young man--is this true? Did
you steal it? If so--"
"I didn't. I swear I didn't!"
"He was bending over Jenkins," Amborg raged, "when the lights went on.
He's got it! Let me at him!"
"There has been sufficient violence!" snapped Salvation Smith. He
turned to Chip. "Young man, I order you to let your accuser search
you. If you are truly innocent, you will not demur. If you refuse--"
He shifted his rifle from one horny palm to another significantly.
"Justice shall prevail!"
"Very well!" said Chip. He submitted himself to Amborg's triumphant
search. His flesh ran cold at the feel of the man's icy fingers, and
a dull resentment suffused him--but he got his reward in the look of
bafflement that grew on Amborg's face as it became clear that the
missing sphere was not on his person. "Are you satisfied now?" he
demanded.
Amborg's normally pale face was whiter still with impotent fury; his
eyes flamed with hatred. "It's not _on_ you," he admitted. "But I know
you took it. You've hidden it somewhere. I'm not through with you yet,
sailor! I'll have that metal or--"
"There will be no 'or'!" proclaimed Salvation Smith stridently. "The
lad has passed the test and proven himself guiltless; the case is
closed. He will walk from this place unharmed--in my company! 'The true
man shall suffer no hurt, neither shall the righteous fail.' Come, my
son!"
And he lifted his gun. Blaze Amborg's lips thinned to a hard, white
line. But he made no reckless move as the two men stalked silently
from the room....