Kendall Stone had twelve hours to save a
thousand lives. It wasn't much time, especially
since someone was making sure he didn't use it!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There was a scream of tortured air over the Mojave Spaceport as a
two-man starship dropped on its hot jets toward the wide cementalloy
landing field. It slowed and settled gently to the ground. Before the
faint wisps of smoke had time to dissipate, the airlock door opened,
and a big, broad-shouldered man got out. He dropped lithely to the
ground and started off across the field at a quick trot.
He nearly bowled over a field attendant who had been coming toward him.
"Hey!" the surprised attendant said. "Don't you want your ship checked?"
"Don't have time," Kendall Stone called back, as he continued running
toward the Customs Office. He glanced at his watch. 1800. Twelve hours
till dawn. Twelve hours!
Kendall Stone gritted his teeth and doubled his pace. He was in a
super-plus top-level hurry. He'd practically burned a hole in the
vacuum between Earth and Mars trying to get to Mojave on time. _Twelve
hours!_ At dawn, Galth of Rastol would die in the execution chamber for
the crime of murder. And it was up to Kendall Stone to stop it.
He opened the door to the Main Lounge of the spaceport building and
pushed his way through the thick, jostling crowd, moving slowly toward
the Customs Office. He hardly noticed the people he shoved aside. There
was only one thought in his mind: _I've only got twelve hours_.
Personally, Stone didn't give an octangle damn about Galth; he didn't
even know the Rastolian personally--had never heard of him until
a short time ago. But if Galth of Rastol died, so would a thousand
others. The human colony on Rastol III would be wiped out in reprisal.
Including, Stone thought bitterly, the wife and two sons he had left
behind to go on this purchasing trip.
The Customs Office was in sight now. He threaded his way through the
mob. Just before he reached the door, he was almost pushed off balance
by a squat, chubby little man who steadied him, apologized profusely,
and went on his way.
Scowling angrily, Stone stepped inside the Customs Office. A hard-faced
man in uniform sat behind the broad desk, looking up at him boredly.
"Yes?"
"I have a cargo of Martian _valdone_ aboard my ship, and I want to
report it," Stone said.