Curt Emmons paused in his cautious stride. With a supernal sense
of keening, he knew he was not alone in the darkness. He threw his
shoulders aside. The _energast_ recoil was no more than a soft sigh,
but the beam passed so close to Curt's face he could feel the swirling
heat of it.
With a muffled cry, Curt let himself crumple and fall. The muscles of
his broad shoulders went tight as he pressed against the hard prison
pavement. Weaponless, he realized his only chance was the element of
surprise! He saw a darker shadow detach itself from the wall and come
toward him. A lone Guard. The man stared down for a moment, then,
relaxed, bent over the prone figure.
Curt propelled himself upward. With an oath the Guard tried to leap
back, bring the _energast_ into position. Curt clawed for the gun
wrist. His fingers tightened. The Guard was Jovian, Curt realized in
an instant of panic. His other hand found the wrist, his feet moved
swiftly, then he threw all his strength into the leverage. Bone
snapped, and the seven-foot bulk sailed backward into the wall.
But Curt knew these Jovians! He leaped forward as the Guard tried to
rise, brought his knee up under the chin with a sickening crunch. Blood
bubbled from the man's lips. Curt sprang upon him, thrust an open hand
into his face. He brought the other hand in a vicious, slicing blow
across the hard throat muscles. The Jovian plunged forward and lay
still.
Curt came to his feet, breathing heavily. It seemed unbelievable that
other Guards were not attracted to the scene! But all he heard was the
steady, hollow sound of the pumps supplying air to the Prison Dome. He
groped for the _energast_ gun, but couldn't find it now. There was no
time to waste!
He hurried forward, keeping one hand outstretched against the wall.
He sought to pierce the darkness ahead. A few minutes later he paused
again, as another figure loomed. Curt wished now that he'd found the
gun, but it was too late for that!
"Emmons?..."
Curt let out a slow breath of relief as the whisper came to him. He
hurried forward to greet another Earthman.
"You're late," the second man said. "What happened?"
"A little trouble. How about the helmets? Get them?"
"Wouldn't be here otherwise!"
"The Martian. Did he make it?"
"Yeah, but I don't see why _he_--"
"Never mind that, Rikert," Curt snapped. "Let's go."
They reached one of the gates. The Martian was waiting. Curt stumbled
over another Guard, but this one was dead. A tiny _bak_-glass needle
protruded from his throat.
"We had some trouble too," Rikert explained.
Curt wondered which of them had the needle-gun, but he said nothing.
When they had donned the oxygen-helmets, Curt produced a triggered
electronic key.
"I managed to smuggle this. It's the only way we'll make it out of
here! Don't worry about the alarms, just stay close to me. I have a
plan."
Once in the exit lock, Curt had a moment of foreboding as he watched
the huge inner doors close behind them. Again he applied the electronic
key. The outer doors opened. They stepped into the unending lava waste
of Mercury's nightside.
No sound reached them now. But Curt knew that already, in the Prison
Dome behind them, the alarm was being given. He hugged the outer
_crystyte_ wall, hurrying along it away from the exit. The others sped
after him. Rikert clicked on his speaker.
"Emmons, what the hell! This is crazy!"
"Is it?" Curt didn't stop his half running pace. "You two agreed I was
to handle this! They won't think to look for us so close!"
They stopped at last, huddling against the wall. A half mile behind
them the lock was opening again. Two of the surface-cars, on
caterpillar treads, blasted out and away. Searchlights slashed the
ragged terrain.
"They won't spend too much time," Curt said. "They figure we're dead
men already." Never yet had a prisoner succeeded in reaching the
Mercurian cities, hundreds of miles away on the twilight-strip. Curt's
face went grim as he thought of _their_ chances. They weren't trying to
reach a city! Their destination was the little mountain-range somewhere
on the nightside.
Ten minutes later the surface-cars came back. The Prison lock opened
and closed. Grimly, the three fugitives headed into the wastes.
There'd be no pursuit now.
* * * * *
Rikert strode forward purposeful as an automaton, and he was much like
an automaton in other ways. As silent and grim. As big and hard, and as
cold. The square lines of his face were unmoving beneath the crystyte
helmet.
Kueelo was smaller, but he managed to keep pace. His eyes burned
brightly in his finely chiselled face. Only the high-pitched, mad
little tune on his lips seemed to keep him going.
Curt Emmons, perhaps more than the others, knew the chances against
them. His gray eyes flicked worriedly to the dial inside his helmet.
It registered slightly over half, which meant they had two more hours
of oxygen. It would be close! He set his lips tight, glanced at his
companions.
He knew Rikert would bear up. It was Kueelo who worried Curt. The
little Martian was leg weary, keeping pace on sheer grit alone--grit
that stemmed somehow from that eerie little tune eternally on his lips!
"We're a little ahead of schedule," Curt lied. "Let's take five."
Kueelo sank down gratefully on the hard rock. Even Rikert eased his
bulk down. Then in annoyance he thrust a hand against the Martian.
"Damn it, Kueelo, turn it off!"
Abruptly the tune died on Kueelo's lips. He stretched out, gazed with
infinite longing at the black sky and myriads of mocking stars. He
searched for Mars.
Curt stared back across Mercury's lava-waste. The Prison Dome was well
behind them now. He wished he could say how far ahead their objective
lay, the little mountain-range that straddled half the planet.
"Last chance," Curt told them grimly. "If either of you wants to change
his mind, you've just enough oxygen to make it back! They may let you
in again--if you want a month of solitary at the radite mines. What
about you, Rikert?"
The big man raised his head, laughed nastily. "Go back to that hell
hole? I'd rather die a quick death out here. _You_ getting cold feet,
Emmons?"
Curt flashed darkly. He'd only made the suggestion for Kueelo's sake.
"You, Kueelo? There's a chance of our missing Landreth. We've been
delayed, and he said he'd wait only ten hours with the spaceship."
The little Martian's face showed white in the darkness. His voice was
soft, very soft and musical as always.
"Thanks, Emmons. But I've waited years for a chance like this. If it
were a million to one I'd still say go on." Curt nodded. Sure, he knew.
Kueelo was a Martian political, an "irreconcilable," exiled to Mercury
six years ago when Jal Tagar's government had taken over Mars. As to
Rikert, Curt knew even less. The man had been sentenced for murder or
space-piracy. It didn't matter now.
What mattered was that these two knew even less about him. He wondered
how long he'd stay alive if they learned his real status!
DeHarries had taken into his confidence a mere half-dozen of his most
trusted operatives. They were given widespread assignments. None knew
what he would find, or where. And Curt's assignment, the Federation
Prison, was toughest of all. Not even the Prison overseers knew his
true identity! Curt worked with the hardened criminals of all planets,
enduring the privations and hardships and awful radite rays.
Gradually, Curt became one of the select group of prisoners who helped
unload the supply ship which arrived twice a year. On its last arrival,
just a few days ago, a crew member had slipped a folded note into
Curt's hand! The message stated that _Landreth_ would be waiting on the
darkside, and would take three men--any three. It set the time and the
place.
Landreth! Curt could scarcely believe his luck. That elusive pirate
had disappeared, and was thought to be dead. Apparently not! What new
scheme was he hatching now--and more important--did it have a bearing
on the unseen forces which DeHarries felt were at work?
Curt selected Rikert for the escape because the man was big and tough
and could handle himself well in a showdown fight. Kueelo he selected
for a different reason. It was partly sentiment--but more than that,
Curt had a deep-rooted suspicion that Kueelo was more than an ordinary
"political"!
* * * * *
Curt gave the signal, and they continued across the dark uncertain
terrain. Jagged rock cut into their boots. Soon they were forced to
circle wide around crevices large enough to swallow a man.
Curt watched the hand on his oxygen gauge drop lower and lower. There
could be no turning back now! If they didn't find Landreth's ship
within the next hour....
Rikert spoke, worry creeping into his voice. "We ought to be getting
close, Emmons! How about using a signal flare?"
Curt peered ahead at the cobalt sky. The horizon dropped sheerly away.
He shook his head.
"Only got two flares, can't waste them! Wait 'til we sight the
mountains."
Rikert grumbled, but Curt saved his breath. Half an hour later they
glimpsed a serrated line of cliffs low on the horizon. Curt released
one of the flares in that direction. They watched it rage in a fiery
arc across the darkness for perhaps twenty seconds ... then it
disappeared.
They awaited an answering signal. Anything to guide them! But nothing
appeared. The darkness pressed in, almost tangible.
Despair washed over Curt like a cold wave from the sea.
"Better set your oxygen flow to one-half," he advised. They hurried
the pace now, heedless of sharp rocks and dangerous gullies. Once Curt
pulled Kueelo back from a steep brink just in time. The little Martian
was staggering.
Could Landreth have given up hope on them, and hoisted gravs? At the
thought, Curt hurriedly brought out the remaining flare. With a prayer
on his lips he aimed it, this time in a higher arc.
Then Kueelo was clutching at Curt's arm, pointing far off to the left.
There was the answering signal--a thin pencil of light slicing upward.
It flashed on and off at intervals, but it seemed a long way!
Already, sharp pains were slicing through Curt's lungs. He stayed close
to Kueelo--but the Martian's fatigue seemed to have left him now!
He was giving voice again to the peculiar little aria in the higher
octaves which Curt had come to know so well. In that strange tune
was a challenge, a promise--and something more. It was pagan. It was
strength. It got into a man's soul!
It seemed an eternity. They were nearing the cliffs, stumbling into a
rocky ravine. They saw the spaceship, Landreth's ship! But the scalpels
of fire in Curt's lungs were unendurable. The spaceship and all the
terrain danced and faded away. His legs were leaden, Kueelo staggered
against him, and somehow he managed to hold the little Martian upright.
A vague impression ... a spilled square of light out of which a
helmeted figure came leaping. Kueelo collapsed, sliding slowly away.
Curt plummeted forward, gasped for air where there was suddenly none,
then utter darkness claimed him.