George Hanlon ran as he had never run before, but somehow,
surprisingly, that Estrellan native not only kept up with him, but the
young S S man could tell from the sound that he was catching up. This
guy must be half greyhound, Hanlon thought--although he, himself, was
slowed down by those huge shoes to which he was not yet too accustomed,
so that when running he had trouble not stumbling over his own feet. It
was hard remembering to keep his legs spread further apart than normal.
He finally saw just ahead of him the far edge of the wood, and beyond
that a great, open meadow. He would be in clear sight out there, unless
he could outdistance his pursuers. And this closest one was much too
near for that. He would have to stop this gunnie somehow, and now.
Hanlon ducked behind a great tree, and peered out carefully. In his
hands he held a knob of wood he had picked up. Soon he saw the native
come running between the trees, straight in his direction.
Hanlon took a firmer grip on his club, and raised it above his head.
The mobster came alongside the tree, the club came down--hard. One down.
Hanlon started on across the meadow then, for the woods was afire and
he felt there was no chance of escape that way. He hoped he could find
some sort of a hiding place out there--quite sure in his mind he could
not outdistance the men following. He zigzagged a bit as he ran, and
kept looking back over his shoulder from time to time.
Hanlon had covered nearly two hundred yards, and was again looking
back over his shoulder, when suddenly his foot struck something, and
he pitched headlong. The breath _whooshed_ out of him as he landed. He
felt as though he was a mass of cuts and bruises. He fought to regain
his breath, drawing in great gulps of air. His back hurt, and his legs.
One arm seemed almost useless.
"Oh, no, not broken!" he wailed inwardly. Tentatively he tried to move
it, and found to his joy that it was only badly jammed. He remembered
now, he had landed on that hand.
He glanced around and saw that he had fallen over a great, exposed
rock-edge, perhaps a foot high, half as wide, but eight or nine feet
long. Despite the inconvenience of dozens of pieces of broken rock on
the ground there, he swung his body around so he was lying along the
length of the rock, hoping thus to hide a bit while he regained his
breath and a measure of strength.
"If I'm lucky, I can hide here until they leave," he panted, striving
to calm his nerves and slow his breathing. He peered cautiously over
the top of the rock, back toward the burning wood.
Soon he saw another of the men emerge carefully from the edge of the
wood, but a considerable distance away. He watched this fellow as he
crept out into the meadow, looking from side to side in his search for
their quarry.
So intent was Hanlon on watching this man that he did not see nor
hear the approach of a third man, until the other jumped the stone,
almost landing on Hanlon. The S S man could not entirely stifle an
exclamation, and instantly the man swiveled and shone his light
directly on Hanlon.
Swiftly the Corpsman snaked out his hand, caught the goon's foot and
yanked. The man fell backward, and Hanlon, injuries forgotten, leaped
up. But with a lithe, swift movement his attacker was on his feet,
swinging at Hanlon with the hand holding his lantern. It was, the S S
man saw now, the fellow he thought he had knocked out with his club.
The Terran's hands darted out and grabbed the man's other wrist,
pushing it up and away. For in the gyrations of the lamp he had seen
that the fellow carried a flamer.
Forth and back they wrestled. By dint of extra effort Hanlon kept the
gun's muzzle pointed away from him. But he realized sickeningly that
his antagonist was stronger and heavier than he. For an Estrellan, this
goon was really a giant.
Hanlon decided on a desperate chance. Instead of pushing _against_ the
man's strength, he suddenly lunged backward. The goon cursed as he
strove to keep his own footing, and pulled back as best he could.
Hanlon's reflexes were faster than the mobster's, and he took full
advantage of the change of leverage. He twisted half-sideways, and let
go with his right hand. He swung with all his strength at the soft
belly before him.
The man grunted and tottered, for he had not quite regained full
equilibrium. Again and again Hanlon struck. The man staggered, reeled
backward. A quick snatch, and Hanlon had the flamer ... and used it.
Swiftly he looked to see if the man he had been watching had noticed
the fight--and the flash.
Apparently he had, for he was coming on a run. Hanlon snapped a shot
at him--and missed. An answering lance of flame almost got him. Hanlon
tried another ... and got only a weak sizzle. The first gunman's
flamegun was dead.
Only flight was left. Hanlon dropped the useless weapon and started off
across the field as fast as he could run. He had not fully recovered
his breath, and every muscle in his body shrieked from that fall and
his unusual exertions.
He stumbled and staggered, but kept on running as fast as he could.
Behind he could hear the yells of the gunman who was on his trail,
apparently calling to someone else. The beam of the lantern held Hanlon
almost steadily.
Still the Corpsman ran. He had no idea what lay ahead, or whether he
was running toward safety or into more danger. There was no other cover
he could see in the almost-dark--no trees nor bushes. Merely this
meadow, almost flat, covered with a sort of blossomy grass not more
than two or three inches high. Nor, even if he did find something,
would he be long concealed from the lantern and the man who carried it.
Hanlon swerved, and ran toward but behind the lantern-carrier, hoping
thus to elude him. In fact, he had passed behind the fellow before the
light-rays picked him out again.
The beam held him steadily again, and Hanlon could hear those pounding
feet coming nearer. A gun flamed out again, and Hanlon felt the
excruciating pain of a burn on the side of his arm.
"Yipe, that was close," he gritted as he clamped his other hand over
the wound, and tried to increase his speed. Weariness seemed forgotten
for the moment, and he was able to spurt ahead.
Suddenly he saw twin beams of stronger light coming across the field to
intercept him. "Oh, no," he gasped, "the trike!"
He swerved sharply to the right again, and ran on. Ahead he heard a
strange sort of roar, and only after a moment or so could identify it.
It sounded like the boom of breakers.
"Am I that near the sea?"
Again a sword of flame almost caught him. The car was roaring toward
him, closer each second. He knew starkly that death or capture was a
matter of moments only.
His mind had been reaching out, searching for any sort of animal life
that might come to his assistance. But in this hour of need even that
avenue of help seemed to have detoured.
That roar sounded closer--yet curiously distant. Yet he was almost sure
it was the sound of breaking water. "If it's close enough, maybe I can
find safety there. It's my only hope now," he prayed.
He pounded on and suddenly, almost straight ahead, the nearer of
Estrella's two moons swung above the horizon. Both moons were far
closer to Estrella than Luna was to Terra. Neither was nearly as large,
but they gave considerable light, and this nearer moon was almost at
the full tonight. Hanlon could see better now--but he knew his pursuers
could, too, and that he was now plain in their sight.
"Sorry, dad, but it looks like I've failed," he groaned.
The sound of the water was closer now, and it had more the texture
of breakers than of surf. He devoutly hoped so. Breakers would mean
rocks, and rocks would be hard to avoid if he had to dive. But, more
important, they would mean greater chances for safety if this meadow
ran directly into them, so he could find a hiding place.
Now both gunmen behind were closer. They were firing steadily--and
even in his anxiety to escape Hanlon found time to sneer at their
marksmanship. "Wish I had a gun or a blaster--I'd show them some real
shooting."
Almost blinded now with fatigue, and his run barely more than a
stagger, he struggled on ... and suddenly skidded to a halt just on
the lip of a sharp drop-off. He peered downward, and his heart did
flip-flops. This cliff was well over a hundred and fifty feet high--and
straight down to the water's edge. It was the slapping of the water
against it he had heard.
Even in the moon's rays he could see that it was too vertical, too
smooth, for a swift downward climb. He looked wildly to right and to
left, but could see no possible safety.
The car with its gunmen was closer now, and one of the flames from
their guns almost hit him. There was only one possible escape.
He ran back from the cliff's edge for several yards, straight toward
the onrushing car. Then he turned and sprinted for that edge. He took
off like a broad jumper, as far outward as he could, curving his body
downward into a dive.
"Oh, God, please," he prayed earnestly, "deep water and no rocks."
It seemed an interminable age that George Hanlon fell through the air
on that incredible dive toward the water so far away. Not knowing what
was below made the moments seem dreadful eternities. His mind persisted
in painting ghastly pictures....
At long last Hanlon struck--and was instantly numbed from the force
of the blow and chilled by the icy water. His bruises, burns and cuts
smarted painfully from the salt. He plummeted into the depths, deeper,
deeper, until he thought his lungs would burst, despite the great gulp
of air he had breathed in just before he hit. Slowly he let out a
little bit--and as he sank ever deeper, a bit more. He just couldn't
take it any longer. He would have to let go soon, and try to breathe.
But from some hidden source he drew on new reserves of will and of
strength, and fought on. He felt his descent slowing, and clawed his
way upward.
His head finally burst through the surface, and he trod water while he
gratefully gulped in the reviving air.
All at once he heard a sharp _ping_, and water splashed in his face.
One of those goons above had a pellet gun.
Hanlon struck out away from the shore, swimming under water as fast
and as far as his breath and strength would allow, coming up only to
gulp another lungful of air, then submerging again. Finally he surfaced
and looked back toward the cliff-top. He could dimly see three forms
standing there.
Another pellet struck close by ... and another. Why, he wondered,
hadn't they used that gun on him before?
Never too strong a swimmer, the exhaustion and weakness of his
wounds and that long run made swimming almost impossible for the
young secret serviceman. But he knew his life--and the success of his
mission here--depended on his keeping going. He kicked off the heavy,
water-logged special shoes that made his feet look Estrellan. Ridding
himself of their weight helped a little.
He had felt hundreds of tiny waves of strange thought beating at
the fringes of his mind, and now he opened it wide to receive these
impressions.
"Fish," he said disgustedly after a moment, as he kept swimming further
out. "What good...?" He stopped and thought carefully. "If it was a big
enough fish, maybe...." He sent his mind purposefully out and around.
He was still trying to swim, but his body was worn out. He knew
desperation, for even if he outdistanced their pellets, there was just
not enough strength left in him to swim back to shore. He turned over
on his back and floated, resting as much as possible, but still kept
his mind searching, searching through the waters. It was his only
chance, he felt sure, and sent it ever farther out.
Finally he contacted a larger, stronger thought. Avidly he seized it,
insinuated his mind into it, and realized at once that it was the brain
of a fish. He forced it to swim at its top speed toward him. From the
size and texture of the mind it felt like a large fish. He hoped it was
big enough.
Soon it came up to him, and he saw that it was shark-like, almost eight
feet long, but rounder, and with a head and face much like that of a
Terran sea-elephant. Eagerly and thankfully he grasped one of the small
fins protruding from its underside, and his mind started it swimming
along parallel to the coast.
The musket-type gun had been _splatting_ at him from time to
time--evidently as fast as the shooter could reload. He looked up
toward the cliff-top, and could see men running along it.
"Must be they can see me," although he doubted if they could see
the fish, that swam just below the surface. "Probably," he grinned
mirthlessly, "they're wondering how I can swim so fast."
Another pellet plowed into the water close ahead of his face. The
portion of his mind inside the fish felt the intolerable, burning shock
of pain. The fish seemed almost to stumble. It twisted and coiled about
until Hanlon was able to tighten his control and calm it.
In the dim moonlight he could see the water becoming discolored--and
knew the fish was bleeding profusely.
His mind in the fish knew where the wound was, and Hanlon reached up
for that place and found a gaping hole. He put the tip of a finger
into it to stop the bleeding as much as possible. But he realized at
once that this would not save his carrier, which by now he knew was
not a true fish, but an amphibious mammal, just as Terran's whales are
mammals, not fish.
What could he do? As weak as he was, and as poor a swimmer as he was
at best, there was absolutely no chance of his making it back to shore
under his own power. And even if he did get back, there was no beach,
only that unscalable rocky escarpment ... and the gunmen on top of that.
The fish was his only hope, for he had not been able to locate another
fish-mind of the same calibre. And now his savior was dying.
More carefully now, with his mind inside the amphibian, he examined the
structure of its brain and nervous and muscular systems. Would it be
possible to close that terrible wound?
He traced the nerves to the muscles of that portion of the body and
skin. He tested and tried everything he could figure out.
Finally, Hanlon found the nerve-muscle combination that controlled
exactly that portion of the body. He made it contract--and felt the
muscle tighten about his fingertip. Gently he withdrew the latter from
the wound, and made the muscles close it tightly and completely. It was
necessary to keep doing it consciously, for the moment he relaxed his
concentration it opened again.
He noted subconsciously that there had been no more shots for some
time. "Maybe the guy's outta bullets," he thought. "Or perhaps they
think I'm dead--can see the blood-stains and think they're mine. Or
maybe," as an after-thought, "they've lost track of me in the dimness
and the choppy waters."
Whatever the reason, Hanlon knew a deep thankfulness. He relaxed as
best he could, shivering in the icy waters, still holding loosely onto
the fin of the fish-thing.
He did not try to make it swim. In fact, he kept it from doing so. He
would take time out to try to regain some of his own strength, while
letting the fish overcome, if possible, some of its own weakness and
shock from the pellet-wound.
* * * * *
_Adwal Irad had been growing strangely worried. Acting on a compulsion
he did not realize existed, he moved Admiral Newton to a different and,
a certain being in a spaceship high above hoped, a more concealed place
of imprisonment._