Revolt was flaring on Callisto, and Peter Duane
held the secret that would make the uprising a
success or failure. Yet he could make no move,
could favor no side--his memory was gone--he
didn't know for whom he fought.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Duane's hand flicked to his waist and hung there, poised. His dis-gun
remained undrawn.
The tall, white-haired man--Stevens--smiled.
"You're right, Duane," he said. "I could blast you, too. Nobody would
win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are."
The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it
came, was controlled. "Don't think we're going to let this go," he
said. "We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can
cut me out!"
The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand
bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath,
holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.
He said, "Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; I
work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you when
you turn our--shall I say, our _cargo_?--over to him. And I'll collect
my fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take no
orders from him."
A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor.
He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.
"Hey!" he said. "Change of course--get to your cabins." He seemed about
to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid
any attention.
Duane said, "Do I have to kill you?" It was only a question as he asked
it, without threatening.
A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a
one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.
"Not at all," he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed
opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly
belligerent than Duane, standing there. "Not at all," he repeated.
"Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble.
Leave Andrias out of our private argument."
"Damn you!" Duane flared. "I was promised fifty thousand. I need that
money. Do you think--"
"Forget what I think," Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. "I
don't care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I've done all the
work on this--I've supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundred
thousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern of
mine. The fact is that, after I've taken my share, there's only ten
thousand left. That's all you get!"
Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. "I was right
the first time," he said. "I'll _have_ to kill you!"
* * * * *
Already his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touching
it, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His arms
swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.
"Don't be a fool," he grated. "Duane--"
The P.A. speaker rattled, blared something unintelligible. Neither man
heard it. Duane lunged forward into the taller man's grip, sliding down
to the floor. The white-haired man grappled furiously to keep his hold
on Peter's gun arm, but Peter was slipping away. Belatedly, Stevens
went for his own gun.
He was too late. Duane's was out and leveled at him.
"_Now_ will you listen to reason?" Duane panted. But he halted, and the
muzzle of his weapon wavered. The floor swooped and surged beneath him
as the thrust of the mighty jets was cut off. Suddenly there was no
gravity. The two men, locked together, floated weightlessly out to the
center of the corridor.
"Course change!" gasped white-haired Stevens. "Good God!"
The ship had reached the midpoint of its flight. The bells had sounded,
warning every soul on it to take shelter, to strap themselves in their
pressure bunks against the deadly stress of acceleration as the ship
reversed itself and began to slow its headlong plunge into Callisto.
But the two men had not heeded.
The small steering rockets flashed briefly. The men were thrust
bruisingly against the side of the corridor as the rocket spun lazily
on its axis. The side jets flared once more to halt the spin, when the
one-eighty turn was completed, and the men were battered against the
opposite wall, still weightless, still clinging to each other, still
struggling.
Then the main-drive bellowed into life again, and the ship began to
battle against its own built-up acceleration. The corridor floor rose
up with blinking speed to smite them--
And the lights went out in a burst of crashing pain for Peter Duane.
* * * * *
Someone was talking to him. Duane tried to force an eye open to see who
it was, and failed. Something damp and clinging was all about his face,
obscuring his vision. But the voice filtered in.
"Open your mouth," it said. "Please, Peter, open your mouth. You're all
right. Just swallow this."
It was a girl's voice. Duane was suddenly conscious that a girl's light
hand was on his shoulder. He shook his head feebly.
The voice became more insistent. "Swallow this," it said. "It's only a
stimulant, to help you throw off the shock of your--accident. You're
all right, otherwise."
Obediently he opened his mouth, and choked on a warm, tingly liquid.
He managed to swallow it, and lay quiet as deft feminine hands did
something to his face. Suddenly light filtered through his closed
eyelids, and cool air stirred against his damp face.
He opened his eyes. A slight red-headed girl in white nurse's uniform
was standing there. She stepped back a pace, a web of wet gauze bandage
in her hands, looking at him.
"Hello," he whispered. "You--where am I?"
"In the sick bay," she said. "You got caught out when the ship changed
course. Lucky you weren't hurt, Peter. The man you were with--the old,
white-haired one, Stevens--wasn't so lucky. He was underneath when the
jets went on. Three ribs broken--his lung was punctured. He died in the
other room an hour ago."
Duane screwed his eyes tight together and grimaced. When he opened
them again there was alertness and clarity in them--but there was also
bafflement.
"Girl," he said, "who are you? Where am I?"
"Peter!" There was shock and hurt in the tone of her voice. "I'm--don't
you know me, Peter?"
Duane shook his head confusedly. "I don't know anything," he said.
"I--I don't even know my own name."
"Duane, Duane," a man's heavy voice said. "That won't wash. Don't play
dumb on me."
"Duane?" he said. "Duane...." He swiveled his head and saw a dark,
squat man frowning at him. "Who are you?" Peter asked.
The dark man laughed. "Take your time, Duane," he said easily. "You'll
remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake
up. We have some business matters to discuss."
The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: "I'll
leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias.
He's still suffering from shock."
"I won't," Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room,
the smile dropped from his face.
"You play rough, Duane," he observed. "I thought you'd have trouble
with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of
the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's
no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got
your money here."
* * * * *
Duane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs
over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he
was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest--gray tunic,
gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar.
He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his
skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to
force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.
He looked at the man named Andrias.
"Nobody seems to believe me," he said, "but I really don't know what's
going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I--why, I don't
even know my own name! My head--it hurts. I can't think clearly."
Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. "Don't
play tricks on me," he said savagely. "I haven't time for them. I won't
mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have
to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is."
"Go to hell," Duane said shortly. "I'm playing no tricks."
There was an instant's doubt in Andrias' eyes, then it flashed away. He
bent closer, peered at Duane. "I almost think--" he began.
Then he shook his head. "No," he said. "You're lying all right. You
killed Stevens to get his share--and now you're trying to hold me up.
That's your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I'm
running this show!"
He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. "Dakin!" he
bellowed. "Reed!"
Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the
shooting-star insignia of Callisto's League police, came in, looking to
Andrias for instructions.
"Duane here is resisting arrest," Andrias said. "Take him along. We'll
fix up the charges later."
"You can't do that," Duane said wearily. "I'm sick. If you've got
something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I'm sure I can
explain--"
"Explain, hell." The dark man laughed. "If I wait, this ship will be
blasting off for Ganymede within two hours. I'll wait--but so will the
ship. It's not going anywhere till I give it clearance. I run Callisto;
I'll give the orders here!"