Jean Harlon leaned back from the table, sighed blissfully.
"I never knew," she said, "that such wonderful food existed. Why, that
watermelon was the most delicious thing I've eaten in my life."
Curt Varga smiled, shoved back his chair. "Let's take a quick look at
the gardens before getting some sleep," he said. "I'll show you such
things as the ordinary person has not seen in more than a century."
"Swell!" Jean Harlon nodded.
They walked from the dining hall, entered a side tunnel, followed a
winding ramp toward the center of the asteroid. They chatted aimlessly,
speaking of nothing in particular; and Curt felt a vague pleasure in
him when her eyes reflected her astonishment when she found that he was
educated beyond the average of most men. There was a tang to living at
the moment, and his lithe body felt good and strength-filled, ready to
follow any dictate of his mind.
They turned right, stepped through a side door, and Jean's tiny gasp of
awe was ample reward for all that Curt had done.
The air was warm and moist, heady with the oxygen of growing plants.
Great tiers of water tanks rose along the walls, their surfaces thick
with the green and yellow and bright colors of fruits and vegetables
growing in the vitamin-charged hydroponic baths. They seemed to grow
visibly, even as the Earthpeople watched.
Pipes as thick as a man's arm, bank upon bank, were braced in rows
through the center of the immense room, and thousands of clear bubbles
of water clung to them. The light of gravitic-stasis bulbs glowed deep
in each bubble, and the surfaces of all were threaded with the tender
shoots of growing seedling plants.
"How utterly incredibly marvelous!" Jean whispered.
The Falcon nodded proudly. "Ten thousand tons of food go out of this
cavern every day, taken to the starving people of a dozen worlds. It is
not a one man job; it is a tremendous task for hundreds of thousands of
men and women." He pointed to the workers between the rows. "Those are
the ones who are doing the job; those are my people, my friends. They
and all people like them are what I fight for."
"It's gallant," Jean admitted slowly. "But it's also so incredibly
foolish. A few hundred thousand, or even millions, cannot change the
world we live in. It is far better to take things as they are." She
shuddered involuntarily, as a snake-man glided effortlessly across the
path. "After all, creatures like that shouldn't be permitted to live
like Earthmen."
The Falcon shrugged, some of the good feeling going from his mind. Then
he plucked a handful of rich dark grapes.
"Try these," he said. "We've still a lot of sightseeing to do."
For another hour they walked and talked, meeting the men and women with
whom the Falcon worked. Nowhere was there a fawning attitude because
he was the one whose word was law. There was a tangible feeling of
equality among all the people, a feeling that the girl had never seen
anywhere before.
She spoke but little, until she saw the great storeroom where the
wealth of a hundred nations was piled in orderly stacks. She saw that
the door had neither lock nor bolt, and her eyes were startled when she
glanced at the tall man at her side.
"There's no need," he said, understandingly. "This is communal
property. And there are no thieves in the Base. Anyway, if a thief did
appear, he could not escape--an inertia-tractor beam would bring any
ship back before it could get away."
Jean nodded, and they strolled toward the exit that led to their
apartments. Neither spoke now; both were silent with their thoughts.
A vocoder light was on at a corner box, and the Falcon flicked the
switch.
"Yes?" he said quietly.
"A report has just come in, sir," the mechanical voice said evenly.
"The girl whose ship you stole is--"
The Falcon whirled, feeling the ripping of his dis-gun from his
holster. He whirled in a sudden spin that almost caught Jean Harlon;
and then he came to a sudden halt, the last words of the vocoder
ringing in his mind.
"--Jean Vandor, the daughter of Jason Vandor, the Food Administrator.
She was attending a dance given by--"
The Falcon moved with a desperate tigerish speed, his hand lancing out
to snatch the menacing gun. Then the softened ray caught him squarely
in the chest, and the world blanked out.
* * * * *
He came to slowly, then with a rush of surging emotions that were like
icewater to his brain. He rolled to his feet, wobbled unsteadily for a
moment, then darted down the tunnel, running toward the comptroller's
office. Tunnel after tunnel passed behind him, and he could feel the
ragged pounding of his heart, as he raced across the last few yards of
the entrance room.
He slammed through the door of the office, felt dismay and anger fill
his mind when he saw the dissed wreck of the tractor beam board. Then
he knelt, helped the comptroller to a chair, where the man sagged
groggily.
The man shook his head. "The girl you came with burst in, demanded to
know which were the tractor controls. I wouldn't tell, but she must
have known, for she rayed them, and then blanked me out."
The Falcon snarled a curse. "She's a _telepath_," he said. "She read
your mind." He whirled to a window, peered at the rocket runway that
led into the escape tube. "One ship is gone," he finished harshly.
"Without a tractor to bring her back, she'll take the news straight to
her father. We can't fight the IP with half-gunned ships. I'll have to
run her down."
"Your ship's been refueled and is ready to go. New radi-batteries are
in the tractor gear." The comptroller roused himself with an effort.
"You sure you're all right?" Curt asked anxiously.
"I'm fine."
"Then tell Schutler and Crandal where I've gone. Tell them my orders
are to triple the men outfitting the ships. I'll be back as soon as I
can--but no move is to be made without my okay. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The Falcon whipped about, darted from the office. He ran at top speed,
fitting the dis-gun he had grabbed from a wall rack into his belt
holster. He raced to the conveyor belt, slipped into a seat, flipped
the control to high speed. An instant later, he was hurtling toward his
cradled ship, wind sighing past his face.
"Damn all women!" he thought. "Especially this one!"
The walls whizzed by in a grey blur, and thirty seconds later the
conveyor jarred to a bone-shaking stop. Curt flipped the safety
belt aside, dashed for the small cruiser resting in the cradle. He
impatiently brushed aside a slow-moving workman, stepped through the
port. He closed the port entrance, screwed it shut with powerful
heavings of his shoulders, then darted to the control cabin. Sinking
into the seat, he automatically checked the controls.
"Clear ways," he snapped into the vizi-screen, waited for the "all
clear" signal. A green light flashed to his right, and he closed five
stud switches in close succession. The ship lurched slightly, steadied,
then fled with a rush of displaced air.
The inertia gate closed behind the ship, and the entrance hole flowed
open. Ahead was the empty blackness of space. The next instant, the
planetoid was far behind, and speed was piling at a terrific rate. Curt
was grateful then to the man who had invented the stasis force-screen,
for at the initial acceleration he had achieved, he should have been
dead. But with all atoms of the ship and its contents building speed at
the same rate, he felt no discomfort.
He bent toward the vision-port, scanned the Void with slitted eyes.
Stars gleamed with a cold brightness far away. The Sun was at his back,
and far to his right whirled Earth and Mars. Venus and Mercury fled
their celestial ways far below and behind him.
He swore lightly, built up power in the vision-port, sent a scanner
beam whirling. He missed the stolen ship on the first round of the
beam, caught it on the second try. It was nothing but a tiny spearhead
of yellow flame far ahead.
The rockets drummed with an increasing roar and muted vibration, as
his fingers flicked the switches and studs before him. And despite
the stasis-field, he felt the slightest sensation of travelling at an
incredible rate of speed.
The freight ship was obviously moving at top speed, and was fully
eighty thousand miles away. It fled in a parabola, travelling above the
plane of the ecliptic, its speed now so great that it could not make a
sharp turn so as to double back to Earth at Jean Vandor's touch on the
controls.
Curt grinned. His ship was a cruiser, built for speed, a model that
could outrace the other within a few minutes. He flicked close the last
switch, sank back in his seat, watching the freight ship gradually
drawing closer. He lit a _pulnik_ cigarette, waited, knowing there was
nothing else that he could do for moments.
Then he frowned, leaned forward. His hands grew white on the control
board from the stress of his emotions, and he felt dull panic striking
at his heart. For the freight ship had swerved, had swung about in an
abnormal way, its rocket flow spinning in a flaming arc.
* * * * *
Curt watched with the sickness eating at his heart, for he knew what
had happened. Inexperienced as she was, Jean had permitted her ship to
be caught within the conflicting tides of gravity in space, and even
now was being pulled in the Sargasso of Space.
She could not escape; there was no record of anybody ever escaping
the tides. Her only hope lay in Curt Varga, the tractor rays of his
cruiser, and the superior power of his ship.
He watched the futile struggle of the girl to tear the freighter loose,
saw the ship whip about in a series of surging dives and evolutions
that finally ceased as the ship slowly but surely was dragged into the
midst of the whirlpool.
And now the two ships were but a few thousands of miles apart. Already,
the gravity streams were tugging at the cruiser, striving to turn its
flight into a diving plunge for the maelstrom's heart. Curt worked
with a desperate calculating intensity, playing the power of the ship
against the tides, as a master machinist judges the power of his tools.
He sent the cruiser to the left, flicked on the tractor ray, flashed
its probing beam toward the freighter. The beam caught, whipped by,
then flicked back. Curt could feel the instant tugging. He increased
power, felt the shrill whine of the ray-machine building icy fingers in
his brain. Then the sound was past the audible.
The tides swept over the cruiser, flipped it about like a leaf in a
breeze, almost caused him to lose contact with the freighter. But the
shimmering thread of the tractor's light did not break; the ships were
locked together.
Curt coaxed the last bit of power from his rockets, sent his ship in
a spiralling drive for free space. He smiled thinly, grimly, when the
tossing of the cruiser lessened. He glanced from the vision port,
wondering if they would get free.
* * * * *
A smashing blow struck the ship, drove it back, set metal to singing.
Curt swore harshly. Space was filled with floating debris captured by
the gravitic tides. Small chunks of meteoric rock flashed by, followed
by clouds of dust as fine as gravel. The bloated, ruptured body of a
space-ship rushed by in the opposite direction, hurled nowhere in its
constant swinging about the area of dead space. Curt winced, when he
caught the starshine on the bulgered bodies that trailed in its wake
like a meteor cloud. He wondered, irrelevantly, who the men were.
And then from the darkness of space came a great sweeping clot of
debris, the gutter rubbish of the space lanes. Ships that had been
caught in the tides, meteors, rocks, all the flotsam that had been
gathered through the ages.
But Curt had no time for that. He felt his ship winning free, sent it
whipping to the left again, wondering if his rockets would burn out
under the stupendous strain. And relief filled him, when he realized
that he was pulling the other ship from its death-bed of gravity.
And even as he laughed, he felt all power cease in his ship.
He swore brittlely, fought with the controls. All of them were dead.
Panicky, he stared from the vision port, and dull wonder filled his
mind.
Twin tractor-beams were lancing from the clot of space debris below the
ship, each centered on a different ship. The beams were almost white in
their intensity, so great was their power.
"What the hell!" Curt Varga said audibly, relaxed momentarily.
And then the cruiser was hurtling toward the clot, sucked there by
the tractor beam, moved with an incredible titanic force such as was
only possible from a mighty generator. Curt swerved his gaze to the
freighter, saw that it, too, was trapped.
He thought then of the words that his brother had spoken to him on
Mars before, of the information that had come through about the base
of the drug-smuggling ring being in the Sargasso. He cursed the utter
blind stupidity that had made him discount the words even as they were
spoken. And then puzzlement grew within him, for it was an established
fact that, once caught within the Sargasso, nothing could escape.
How, then, could this be the _smothalene_ smuggling headquarters; the
smuggling ships could not escape the drag of the knitted gravities?
But he had no more time for thinking. The cruiser jarred squarely into
the center of the clot of debris, was sucked through it. Metal jarred
and strained, and a light flickered into life on the board, indicating
that a plate had been sprung in number Three hold.
Curt darted for the wall closet, unzipped it, tugged at his bulger.
He slid into it, closed it, left the quartzite face-plate open until
the control room was actually ruptured and the need for air from the
shoulder tank was necessary.
Outside, rubbish flashed by the ports in a rush of whirling objects.
Except for the crash and clatter of the cruiser forcing its way through
the churning maelstrom, there was no sound.
The cruiser landed with a jar that threw Curt to one side, dazing him
for a moment. He braced his feet, flipped a dis-gun from the wall
rack, went slowly toward the port. He heard it unscrewing before he
got there, and he cogged his head plate shut, switched on the flow of
oxygen. The port came open, and a radio signal buzzed within Curt's
helmet. He felt the rushing of air from the ship into the Void.
"Come on out, with your hands up," a heavy voice snapped
authoritatively.
* * * * *
The Falcon paused irresolutely, then shrugged, shoved the dis-gun into
a pocket of his bulger. Bending a bit, he stepped from the port, was
menaced instantly by five dis-guns held in the hands of bulger-suited
Earthmen. The leader moved forward, disarmed Curt, stared at him
through the face plate of his spacesuit.
"I've been hoping we'd meet," he said in surprise. "But I never figured
you'd come popping in like this!" He gestured about. "I'm Duke Ringo;
these are some of my men."
Curt gazed about, recognized that he stood in the freight hold of a
great liner. The metal was twisted and torn with gravitational strain,
with only one wall intact. Even now, he was being herded toward that
wall.
"I'm Davis, Kemp Davis," Curt said slowly. "I've been scavenging the
lanes. I was trying to save that freighter, figuring salvage rates,
when your ray brought me in." He affected a dead-face expression. "What
are you men doing here, were you sucked in by the tides?"
Duke Ringo laughed scornfully. "To hell with that stuff, Falcon!" he
said. "We know who you are; some of us have seen you. And we've got
a--" He broke off, swung about to face another group clambering into
the hold. "Who is it?" he snapped.
Curt's heart missed a beat; he took an instinctive step forward,
stopped before the menace of a dis-gun. He heard Ringo's voice echoing
tinnily in his earphones, heard another man's answer.
"It's a _girl_, Duke."
"Who, damn it!"
Jean's voice came dear and cool. "I'm Jean Vandor, daughter of Jason
Vandor. If you have charge of these men, make them take their hands
from me."
The second group slowly approached the first. The girl evidently
recognized Curt, for her voice held a triumphant ring. "I see you've
captured him," she said. "That's good. The reward for him will make all
of you men rich. He's Curt Varga, Chief of the Food and Smothalene
Pirates."
"Who'da thought it!" Duke Ringo said in mock amazement, turned away.
"Come on, we'll get back to where it's comfortable."
"Nice going, Jean," Curt Varga said bitterly. "Because of your sheer
stupidity, we're in a jam that made your former one look infantile.
These boys are part of the _smothalene_ smugglers; we haven't got a
chance."
"Shut up, Varga," Duke Ringo said curtly.
Curt subsided, went slowly forward. They entered a small compression
compartment, and Duke cogged a door shut. Air hissed from vents in the
walls, and the pressure gradually mounted. Thirty seconds later, Duke
Ringo unzippered his suit, motioned for the others to do the same. He
lifted a box from one corner of the chamber, handed small nitration
masks about.
"Stick these on," he said to Curt and Jean. "Otherwise you may find
yourself aging pretty rapidly."
Curt fitted his mask to his nose, clamped his lips, his eyes flicking
over the group of men. They were tough, as tough as any men he had ever
seen in space. And he felt queasiness in his stomach when he saw the
sheer cold brutality in their eyes when they looked at him. His fists
tightened when he saw the manner in which they regarded Jean.
"All right, Ringo," Curt said. "Now what's the play?"
Duke Ringo turned slowly. He was fully as tall as Curt, but he was
bulkier, heavier. He surveyed Curt deliberately out of expressionless
eyes, then turned his gaze to Jean.
"The young lady," he said, "will be confined to a cabin for a few days.
You, I think, will earn your keep by working at a drier."
A smuggler laughed openly, subsided when Curt spun toward him.
"I'm making no threats," Curt said finally. "But don't go looking for
trouble. My men know where I am; they'll be looking for me. You can't
afford to buck them."
Duke Ringo chuckled. "Don't be childish, Varga," he said. "Your men
wouldn't have a chance in the tides; I only found out how to enter and
get back, by accident. Play nice, and you won't get hurt. Try getting
tough, and--" He spread expressive hands.
Curt took a stubborn step forward. "Listen, Ringo," he said earnestly,
"my work is important; I've got to get back. I'll make a deal with you."
Jean pushed forward. "I'll _double_ any bribe he offers you," she told
Ringo, "if you keep him a prisoner for the IP. And I'll _triple_ the
reward, if you get me back to Earth within the next six days."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk!" Duke Ringo clucked his tongue. "Maybe I'll collect a
reward bigger than you think--for turning both of you in later."
"How much ransom?" the Falcon said resignedly.
Duke Ringo pondered. "Not much," he admitted. "I just want to take over
your base, your ships, your food-supply." He grinned, opened and shut
his hands. "It looks as if I will."
Curt leaned forward, drove his right hand with every bit of strength
in his rangy body. He forgot the issues at stake, in the blind rage of
the moment; he thought only of his dreams he saw shattered beneath the
grinding heel of the other's desire. He slashed with a desperate fury,
and skin split on the knuckles of his hand.
* * * * *
Duke Ringo went sprawling backward upon the wall, a thin trickle of
blood oozing from a swelling mouth. He swore nastily, came blasting
forward, his right hand catching Curt high on the chest, his left
darting in, smashing at Curt's jaw. Curt rolled with the punch, sagging
backward, then side-stepping. He lashed with both hands, felt a blind
gladness in him when his fists drew gasps of pain from the other. He
waded forward, both hands pistoning, taking blows to his own face that
sent curtains of red pain spinning through his brain.
And then a savage driving punch caught Duke Ringo squarely in the
throat. He sagged, pawed with both hands at his battered larynx. He
gasped, unable to speak, his face purpling from the effort to breathe.
Curt darted in, flicked out a hand, caught the exposed dis-gun at
Ringo's belt. He flipped the gun free, whirled, menaced the remaining
men with its flaring muzzle.
"Back," he snarled, "or I'll cut you down." He nodded at Jean. "Get
behind me," he finished savagely. "This is our only chance to get
free." He was the Falcon then, deadly, dangerous, a light burning in
his eyes.
Jean moved hesitantly toward Curt, edged around him. The smugglers
said nothing, apparently waiting for the slightest opening in Curt's
offensive. Duke Ringo straightened, his face puffed, air whistling into
his bruised throat.
"You'll never make it," Ringo said harshly. "Put down that gun."
Curt laughed mockingly. "I'll take my chances," he said.
And went cold with horror. For Jean lunged forward, swept the gun
aside, and clung panting to his arm. The next instant, Duke leaned
forward, and clubbed with his knotted fist. The blow caught Curt in the
temple, hurled him to one side. He tried to turn, to spin, even as he
was falling, but the girl's clutch on his arm tripped him. He went to
his knees, his free hand shoving at the floor.
And then two of the smugglers had dropped on him, were smashing with
heavy fists. Curt drew his legs beneath him, tore his arm free, came
hurtling upward. In the midst of the movement, he saw the boot lashing
at his face. He sobbed deep in his throat, knowing the blow could not
miss. He tensed the muscles of his neck, rolled his head. And the boot
smashed just below his right ear.
He felt the coolness of the metal flooring on his face, but there was
only a grey blankness before his eyes. He tried to force his body to
his feet, but there was no strength in his arms.
"Take him below," he heard Duke Ringo say. "Stick him at a drier. And
because he likes to play tough, we'll see just how tough he is. _Make
him work without a mask._"
The Falcon called out, but his voice was only a whisper in his mind. He
felt oblivion reaching for him with talon-like fingers, felt panicky
terror constricting his heart. He knew what the last order meant; and
horror filled his brain. Then hands gripped his body, swung it high. He
tried to fight, and the entire world collapsed in a blaze of white-hot
light.