Death was Jaro Moynahan's stock in trade, and
every planet had known his touch. But now, on
Mercury, he was selling his guns into the
weirdest of all his exploits--gambling his life
against the soft touch of a woman's lips.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
On the stage of _Mercury Sam's Garden_, a tight-frocked, limber-hipped,
red-head was singing "_The Lady from Mars_." The song was a rollicking,
ribald ditty, a favorite of the planters and miners, the space pilots
and army officers who frequented the garden. The girl rendered it with
such gusto that the audience burst into a roar of applause.
She bent her head in acknowledgment so that her bronze red hair fell
down about her face. There was perspiration on her upper lip and
temples. Her crimson mouth wore a fixed smile. Her eyes were frightened.
The man, who had accompanied the singer on the piano, sat at the foot
of the stage, his back to the crowded tables. He did not look up at
the singer but kept his pale, immature face bent over the keys, while
his fingers lightly, automatically picked out the tune. Sweat trickled
down the back of his neck, plastered his white coat to his back.
Without looking up, he said: "Have you spotted him?" His voice was
pitched to reach the singer alone.
The girl, with an almost imperceptible gesture, shook her head.
The night was very hot; but then it is always hot on Mercury, the
newest, the wildest, the hottest of Earth's frontiers. Fans spaced
about the garden's walls sluggishly stirred the night air, while the
men and women sitting at the tables drank heavily of Latonka, the
pale green wine of Mercury. Only the native waiters, the enigmatic,
yellow-eyed Mercurians, seemed unaffected by the heat. They didn't
sweat at all.
Up on the stage the singer was about to begin another number when she
stiffened.
"Here he is," she said to the pianist without moving her lips.
The pianist swung around on his stool, lifted his black eyes to the
gate leading to the street.
Just within the entrance, a tall, thin man was standing. He looked like
a gaunt gray wolf loitering in the doorway. His white duraloes suit
hung faultlessly. His black hair was close-cropped, his nose thin and
aquiline. For a moment he studied the crowded garden before making his
way to a vacant table.
"Go on," said the pianist in a flat voice.
The red-head shivered. Stepping from the stage she picked her way
through the tables until she came to the one occupied by the newcomer.
"May I join you?" she asked in a low voice.
The man arose. "Of course. I was expecting you. Here, sit down." He
pulled out a chair, motioned for the waiter. The Mercurian, his yellow
incurious eyes like two round topazes, sidled up. "Bring us a bottle
of Latonka from the Veederman region, well iced." The waiter slipped
away.
"So," said the red-head; "you have come. I did not think you would be
in time." Her hands were clenched in her lap. The knuckles were white.
The man said nothing.
"I did not want to call you in, Jaro Moynahan." It was the first time
she had used his name. "You have the reputation of being unpredictable.
I don't trust you, but since...."
* * * * *
She stopped as the waiter placed glasses on the table and deftly poured
the pale green wine. The man, Jaro Moynahan, raised his glass.
"Here's to the revolution," he said. His low voice carried an odd,
compelling note. His eyes, light blue and amused, were pale against his
brown face.
The girl drew in her breath.
"No! Mercury is not ready for freedom. Only a handful of fanatics are
engineering the revolution. The real Mercurian patriots are against
it, but they are afraid to protest. You've got to believe me. The
revolution is scheduled to break during the Festival of the Rains. If
it does, the Terrestrials here will be massacred. The Mercurians hate
them. We haven't but a handful of troops."
Jaro Moynahan wiped the sweat from his forehead with a fine duraweb
handkerchief. "I had forgotten how abominably hot it can be here."
The girl ignored the interruption. "There is one man; he is the leader,
the very soul of the revolution. The Mercurians worship him. They will
do whatever he says. Without him they would be lost. He is the rebel,
Karfial Hodes. I am to offer you ten thousand Earth notes to kill
Karfial Hodes."
Jaro Moynahan refilled their empty glasses. He was a big man, handsome
in a gaunt fashion. Only his eyes were different. They were flat and
a trifle oblique with straight brows. The pupils were a pale and
penetrating blue that could probe like a surgeon's knife. Now he caught
the girl's eyes and held them with his own as a man spears a fish.
"Why call me all the way from Mars for that? Why not have that gunman
at the piano rub Hodes out?"
The girl started, glanced at the pianist, said with a shiver: "We can't
locate Karfial Hodes. Don't look at me that way, Jaro. You frighten me.
I'm telling the truth. We can't find him. That's why we called you.
You've got to find him, Jaro. He's stirring up all Mercury."
"Who's putting up the money?"
"I can't tell you."
"Ah," said Jaro Moynahan; "so that's the way it is."
"That's the way it is."
"There isn't much time," he said after a moment. "The Rains are due any
day now."
"No," the girl replied. "But we think he's here in the city."
"Why? What makes you think that?"
"He was seen," she began, then stopped with a gasp.
The lights had gone out.
It was as unexpected as a shot in the back. One moment the garden was
glowing in light, the next the hot black night swooped down on the
revelers, pressing against their eyes like dark wool. The fans about
the walls slowed audibly and stopped. It grew hotter, closer.
Jaro Moynahan slipped sideways from the table. He felt something brush
his sleeve. Somewhere a girl giggled.
"What's coming off here?" growled a petulant male voice. Other voices
took up the plaint.
Across the table from Jaro there was the feel of movement; he could
sense it. An exclamation was suddenly choked off as if a hand had been
clamped over the girl's mouth.
"Red!" said Jaro in a low voice.
There was no answer.
"Red!" he repeated, louder.
Unexpectedly, the deep, ringing voice of Mercury Sam boomed out from
the stage.
"It's all right. The master fuse blew out. The lights will be on in a
moment."
On the heels of his speech the lights flashed on, driving the night
upward. The fans recommenced their monotonous whirring.
Jaro Moynahan glanced at the table. The red-headed singer was gone. So
was the pianist.
Jaro Moynahan sat quietly back down and poured himself another glass of
Latonka. The pale green wine had a delicate yet exhilarating taste.
It made him think of cool green grapes beaded with dew. On the hot,
teeming planet of Mercury it was as refreshing as a cold plunge.
He wondered who was putting up the ten thousand Earth notes? Who stood
to lose most in case of a revolution? The answer seemed obvious enough.
Who, but Albert Peet. Peet controlled the Latonka trade for which there
was a tremendous demand throughout the Universe.
And what had happened to the girl. Had the rebels abducted her. If
so, he suspected that they had caught a tartar. The Red Witch had the
reputation of being able to take care of herself.
He beckoned a waiter, paid his bill. As the Mercurian started to leave,
a thought struck Jaro. These yellow-eyed Mercurians could see as well
in the dark as any alley-prowling cat. For centuries they had lived
most their lives beneath ground to escape the terrible rays of the
sun. Only at night did they emerge to work their fields and ply their
trades. He peeled off a bill, put it in the waiter's hands.
"What became of the red-headed singer?"
The Mercurian glanced at the bill, then back at the Earthman. There was
no expression in his yellow eyes.
"She and the man, the queer white one who plays the piano, slipped out
the gate to the street."
Jaro shrugged, dismissed the waiter. He had not expected to get much
information from the waiter, but he was not a man to overlook any
possibility. If the girl had been abducted, only Mercurians could have
engineered it in the dark; and the Mercurians were a clannish lot.
Back on the narrow alley-like street Jaro Moynahan headed for his
hostelry. By stretching out his arms he could touch the buildings on
either side: buildings with walls four feet thick to keep out the
heat of the sun. Beneath his feet, he knew, stretched a labyrinth of
rooms and passages. Somewhere in those rat-runs was Karfial Hodes, the
revolutionist, and the girl.
At infrequent intervals green globes cut a hole in the night, casting a
faint illumination. He had just passed one of these futile street lamps
when he thought he detected a footfall behind him. It was only the
whisper of a sound, but as he passed beyond the circle of radiation, he
flattened himself in a doorway. Nothing stirred. There was no further
sound. Again he started forward, but now he was conscious of shadows
following him. They were never visible, but to his trained ears there
came stealthy, revealing noises: the brush of cloth against the baked
earth walls, the sly shuffle of a step. He ducked down a bisecting
alley, faded into a doorway. Immediately all sounds of pursuit stopped.
But as soon as he emerged he was conscious again of the followers. In
the dense, humid night, he was like a blind man trying to elude the
cat-eyed Mercurians.
[Illustration: _Jaro Moynahan_]
In the East a sullen red glow stained the heavens like the reflection
of a fire. The Mercurian dawn was about to break. With an oath, he set
out again for his hostelry. He made no further effort to elude the
followers.
* * * * *
Once back in his room, Jaro Moynahan stripped off his clothes,
unbuckled a shoulder holster containing a compressed air slug gun,
stepped under the shower. His body was lean and brown as his face
and marked with innumerable scars. There were small round puckered
scars and long thin ones, and his left shoulder bore the unmistakable
brownish patch of a ray burn. Stepping out of the shower, he dried,
rebuckled on the shoulder holster, slipped into pajamas. The pajamas
were blue with wide gaudy stripes. Next he lit a cigarette and
stretching out on the bed began to contemplate his toes with singular
interest.
He had, he supposed, killed rather a lot of men. He had fought in
the deadly little wars of the Moons of Jupiter for years, then the
Universal Debacle of 3368, after that the Martian Revolution as well as
dozens of skirmishes between the Federated Venusian States. No, there
was little doubt but that he had killed quite a number of men. But this
business of hunting a man through the rat-runs beneath the city was out
of his line.
Furthermore, there was something phony about the entire set up.
The Mercurians, he knew, had been agitating for freedom for years.
Why, at this time when the Earth Congress was about to grant them
self-government, should they stage a revolution?
A loud, authoritative rapping at the door interrupted further
speculation. He swung his bare feet over the edge of the bed, stood
up and ground out his cigarette. Before he could reach the door the
rapping came again.
Throwing off the latch, he stepped back, balancing on the balls of his
feet.
"Come in," he called.
The door swung open. A heavy set man entered, shut and locked the door,
then glanced around casually. His eyes fastened on Jaro. He licked his
lips.
"Mr. Moynahan, the--ah--professional soldier, I believe." His voice was
high, almost feminine. "I'm Albert Peet." He held out a fat pink hand.
Jaro said nothing. He ignored the hand, waited, poised like a cat.
Mr. Peet licked his lips again. "I have come, Mr. Moynahan, on a matter
of business, urgent business. I had not intended to appear in this
matter. I preferred to remain behind the scenes, but the disappearance
of Miss Mikail has--ah--forced my hand." He paused.
Jaro still said nothing. Miss Mikail must be the red-headed singer,
whom at different times he had known under a dozen different aliases.
He doubted that even she remembered her right name.
"Miss Mikail made you a proposition?" Albert Peet's voice was tight.
"Yes," said Jaro.
"You accepted?"
"Why, no. As it happened she was abducted before I had the chance."
Mr. Peet licked his lips. "But you will, surely you will. Unless
Karfial Hodes is stopped immediately there will be a bloody uprising
all over the planet during the Festival of the Rains. Earth doesn't
realize the seriousness of the situation."
"Then I was right; it is you who are putting up the ten thousand Earth
notes."
"Not entirely," said Peet uncomfortably. "There are many of us
here, Mercurians as well as Earthmen, who recognize the danger. We
have--ah--pooled our resources."
"But you stand to lose most in case of a successful revolution?"
"Perhaps. I have a large interest in the Latonka trade. It
is--ah--lucrative."
* * * * *
Jaro Moynahan lit a cigarette, sat down on the edge of the bed. "Why
beat about the bush," he asked with a sudden grin. "Mr. Peet, you've
gained control of the Latonka trade. Other Earthmen are in control
of the mines and the northern plantations. Together you form perhaps
the strongest combine the Universe has ever seen. You actually run
Mercury, and you've squeezed out every possible penny. Every time
self-government has come before the Earth Congress you've succeeded in
blocking it. You are, perhaps, the most cordially-hated group anywhere.
I don't wonder that you are afraid of a revolution."
Mr. Peet took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Fifteen
thousand Earth notes I can offer you. But no more. That is as high as I
can go."