III

Torry opened one eye cautiously. He was in bed, a soft bed with clean

linens. Beside the bed loomed a monstrous figure. Something that might

have been, and was, a Venusian type-R mutant. It seemed not quite

human, and big even for a Venusian. But it was not a stranger.

"Ferax!" whispered Torry, opening both eyes.

"It's been a long time," said the Venusian in thick accents.

"Not long enough."

Ferax laughed brutally. His head was a hairless globe of coarse

leather, into which some humorist had punched a parody of human

features while the material was still pliable. Nothing about Ferax

looked pliable now.

"You're still tough, Torry. And you're keeping fast company these days.

But you'll never learn to work with your brain instead of your fists or

a gun."

Torry smiled with bruised, pulpy lips. "Look who's talking. You're

getting soft, Ferax. Last time your boys worked over Roper and me we

couldn't walk or talk for a week. And I hear you're in fast company

yourself since you gave up strike-breaking and took over union

racketeering. You may be a big name now, but you're as ugly as ever.

And to me, you'll always smell like the skunk in the perfume works."

Ferax bellowed happily. "Smells are more subtle in higher brackets,

that's all. In a stinking world, nobody smells too pretty. Not even

you, and certainly not your girl friend--or is she Roper's?"

"Tharol Sen? Roper's, I guess. You'll have to ask them. I barely saw

the girl myself. I just got in night before last, spent a day answering

questions for the police, then rested up one night before buying myself

a package of trouble. Nobody tells me anything, so I'll have to guess.

Is Roper behind this rat race?"

Ferax grunted. "I could almost believe you don't know. So I'll tell

you. He's in with a Martian power grab. They need transuranic metals

to power their underground cities. The stuff is scarce and expensive.

Everyone's looking for new sources and we'll have to find some soon or

our whole economy will break down. The Martians are in the same jam,

desperate."

"Roper has a new source?"

"Not new. We all know where the metals are. Neptune's big moon, Triton.

And Pluto. The trouble is getting them out."

Torry shook his head. "But you've mined under bad conditions before.

Triton and Pluto should be no worse than some."

"Not the mining. Transportation. Freight rates from Pluto or Triton

would eat up all the profits. And take too much time. Who wants to

spend twelve years hauling in one shipload of ore? The answer is,

nobody. The Martians can afford the money since they're already paying

top rates for whatever we can supply. But we think Roper has a short

cut for transportation--"

"If he has I'd better get in with him. Sounds like a very good profit."

Ferax chuckled. "I know better than that. You and Roper hate each other

worse than you hate me. Besides, I can offer a better deal. He'll only

swindle you out of your cut, and you know it. Throw in with me and

you'll stay alive, plus a slice of whatever I take."

"Are you serious about that? If so, I'll have to think it over. Is

there any use asking you where I can find Roper?"

"No use at all," said Ferax, grinning. "I don't know. If I did, I'd

go there after him. If you do I'll have you followed. You always did

have a genius for picking the losing side, which makes it a pleasure to

fight you. You're free to go as soon as you're strong enough. If you

decide to play things my way, let me know. I'll give you a pass, day

or night. Getting into union headquarters is like breaking into the

mint. I live like a minor king, and the place is a fort."

Torry snorted. "It's probably safer that way, when so many people hate

your guts."

Ferax shrugged. "For that compliment I'll give you some free advice.

Don't tell the police about that shooting fray in the warehouse. You're

nobody, and the police would love to clear the union and your Martian

twirp by using you for scapegoat. You or the girl killed six of my best

hardheads. Also, if you see her or old Sen Bas, watch yourself. They're

both trickier than snakes and a lot more poisonous."

"One thing more," said Torry. "What happened to the girl?"

Ferax opened eyes wide. "You tell me. She was gone, along with the

stuff from the boxes. My men found you sprawled out unconscious from a

blow on the head. You were suckered, friend. Suckered."

Ferax produced a metal ident card impregnated with coded electronic

inks. "This will keep you out of jail if your cop friend has any such

ideas. Also, it will get you in here to see me anytime, day or night,

if you change your mind."

Torry laughed, but accepted the card uneasily. "That will be the day or

night...."

* * * * *

Like all police stations, the building reeked of unwashed bodies and

harsh disinfectants. In Grannar's office, Torry faced out the storm.

"Amateur!" said Grannar in disgust. "Why did I ever get mixed up with

you?"

Torry glared back at him. "Our lovey-dovey arrangement is brittle

enough to break off any time you want it that way."

Grannar shook himself like a wet dog. "Not yet. Whether you know it or

not, you did pick up some interesting facts. I guess Tharol Sen has

tricked smarter men than you. And she'll probably keep that partnership

bargain, since Martians are funny about honor in a business deal. Since

she was the one at the auction we can assume that the Martians picked

up Roper from the wrecked escape ship and that he's alive."

"I'm sure she knows where Roper is," said Torry. "Now if I knew where

to find her--"

"That's easy enough," Grannar told him acidly. "Her grandfather has a

big place in the old Martian sector, about twenty acres on the surface

and Thol knows how many cubic miles of tunnels and cellars underground.

He calls himself an importer, and after his own quaint way, he is. Any

vice for a price. Sen Bas' Garden of Delights is a combination gambling

den, freak show, amusement park, carnival and emporium of forbidden

drugs and narcotic liquors. We've tried raiding the joint but gave that

up. Too risky, with their mines and booby traps, and the Martians just

scamper into the holes and get lost. Below ground is a rabbit warren of

caverns and tunnels and vaults that used to be for growing and curing

mushrooms and commercial molds. We know the girl is there, somewhere,

but--"

"But you're afraid to go in after her?"

"Not quite that. If ordered on regular police business I'd go poking

into even that Martian hornet's nest. But we have nothing on her or Sen

Bas, and only a suspicion that Roper's hiding there. Since you muffed

something easy, like the auction, I doubt if you could manage to get

in, let alone locate her or Roper."

"Who says I muffed anything?" demanded Torry irritably. "I know what

was in the boxes, though I didn't tell the girl I knew. It's a matter

transmitter, the only one in the Solar System. An inventor back on

Earth was knocked on the head and his working model stolen. He's alive,

but has lost his memory, and the plans were taken along with the model.

Roper's big secret is stolen property, but getting it back may be a

problem. I didn't guess what it was till the girl used it to escape

from the warehouse. Probably they want the thing to bring back heavy

metal ores from Triton or Pluto. I've learned more in three days than

you did in four years."

Grannar bowed sardonically. "Oh, sure. I apologize. And now I'm sure

you can lay hands on a man with a perfect escape method--from anywhere

to anywhere. The ratholes were bad enough, but this really does it."

"The girl is still a good lead," said Torry quietly. "I'm going after

her. Are you, or do I have to ask help from Ferax?"

"Suit yourself about Ferax. I won't risk my job on a chance Roper

might be there--"

"How much is your job worth?" asked Torry, with a sneer.

Grannar's face twitched. "For half that dough you threw away at the

auction, I could buy a plankton farm on Earth...."

Torry licked his lips and left. Back at the hotel he cashed a bank

draft and put twenty thousand credits in currency into an envelope with

a note and sent it to Grannar. The note began:

_I've always wanted to buy a policeman. Now you can afford to do

your job. I'm seeing Ferax first, but with or without his help,

I'm going after Roper._

Terse instructions followed. Torry did not expect too much of Grannar,

but the man represented law and authority as far as either existed on

Mars, and dealing with Roper, Ferax, and the Martians all at once was

scarcely a one-man job.

* * * * *

Trans-U Miners Union housed itself in a citadel remarkable even on

Mars. It occupied the center of a large area, cleared, floodlighted

and surrounded by a charged wire fence. Inside the defense circle were

booby traps triggered for the first careless step off marked pathways

patrolled by robot guards. Torry's metal ident card got him through the

gateway by tripping electronic relays, and each incorruptible robot

guard passed him after being shown the card.

At the building doorway he had to satisfy a series of dubious and hard

bitten human questioners, but his pass and the magic name of Ferax got

him inside.

Doors opened. Robot voices directed him across echoing lobbies to a

bank of elevators. In a locked cage he descended five floors below

surface level. In the corridor another bodiless voice spoke:

"End of the hall. Door on the right."

Torry followed directions. The ritual was getting on his nerves. His

footsteps echoed hollowly. The place smelled damp and moldy as a

tomb. Opening the door on the right with a wave of his keyed pass, he

realized that it was, in a sense, a tomb. There was a body in it. A

dead body.

Ferax sprawled across an ornate desk of Venusian chibar wood and

kru-leather.

Luminous particles from a blaster discharge still danced in the air.

A lingering bite of charred, exploding flesh stung the nostrils.

There was little left of the torso, but a lolling globular head

identified the corpse. A discarded gun clanked as Torry's foot kicked

it. He hesitated, then picked it up and renewed the charge. It was an

automatic reflex of defense, and fingerprint evidence was not likely

to matter now. If found on the spot he would have little chance for

explanations.

The thing had happened only minutes ago. Whoever did it, the killer

must still be close at hand. A roving flicker of pale radiance warned

Torry that a scanner was in use. By whom? From where? No complex mental

processes were needed to convince Torry that he was in a bad spot.

The goon squads were notorious for acting first and asking questions

afterwards.

Getting into the citadel to see Ferax had been interesting enough.

Getting out again promised to be more so. If he ever got out.

The office door was opening slowly. Silently Torry glided behind

it. Reaching around it, he snatched cloth and flesh and dragged a

struggling form into the room.

"Tharol Sen!" The girl was panting, her periwinkle eyes wide and glazed

with horror.

Torry subdued her writhings by jamming the blaster muzzle hard into her

flesh.

"Talk low," he ordered. "But talk fast. Why did you kill Ferax?"

"I didn't. I found him like that, just a moment ago. I heard the

blaster and looked in quickly. Then I hid in the office across. I heard

something and came back here. That's all I know." Her voice ended on a

wail.

Torry jerked up the elfin face and studied it savagely. For some reason

he believed her. But there was more to explain, even if someone else

had killed the labor racketeer, and little time for explanations.

"How did you get in here?" he snapped. "And why?"

She threw back her head in a characteristic gesture. Her eyes sparkled.

"Roper had come here. He was so long that I got worried. I came

through...." She stopped talking suddenly.

"Through the transmitter? I know about it, so you can call it by the

right name."

Tharol Sen nodded numbly.

"That means Roper killed him."

The girl jerked angrily. "Bart Roper wouldn't do that. He wouldn't kill

an unarmed man. Probably you killed him, and just want to throw the

blame on ... on us."

Torry ignored her. "Roper would be too smart to leave any evidence. So

I'll leave it for him." From his pocket he took a small lighter with a

name engraved on it, quickly scrubbed it free of prints and dropped it

on the floor as if it had fallen in the excitement of murder. It would

not carry conviction, but it would be proof of Roper's presence and his

reputation would do the rest.

"You fool," said Tharol Sen. "I'm a witness, and I saw you do that.

I'll testify."

"Do that," taunted Torry viciously, "if it ever comes to a trial.

Who'll believe you? And I don't think the strong arm boys will wait

for a trial. If you can get back through that transmitter screen, we'd

better do it before someone finds us here."

"Take you?" she snarled. "I'd rather die here."

"You have that choice."

She changed her mind. Torry did not misread the flash of wicked triumph

on her face. He did not have to.

"All right," she yielded. "Bart Roper will know how to take care of

you. Come ahead, if you dare. The transmitter screen is in the opposite

office."

Torry sighed bitterly. "I'll chance Roper. I've already had one session

with the goons."

* * * * *

The quicksilver screen was three-dimensional, and possibly four, since

it seemed to exist in two places at once and linked them without

regard to intervening distance. It was a hollow cylinder supported by

metal framework, and the insubstantial fabric glowed and pulsed with

electrical current. Inside was darkness and a sense of infinite space.

Walking through the odd fabric one encountered nothing material, but

a prickling touched every skin surface, then soaked through the bone

centers.

Leaving the force field of the screen was more exhilarating, and

almost painful. It was like breaking an electrical contact; muscles

jerked spasmodically, hair stood on end, and hot sparks discharged from

any moist portions of the skin. Torry had not realized how drenched his

body was in cold sweat. He stepped out, gasping.

He stepped into paradise, or hell. Unreality.

Martian subcellar gardens are startling to outsiders. In the air

was the bitter tang of narcotic incense. Smoke distorted vision.

Nightmarish fantasies of mobile murals in rich colors writhed on the

walls. The ceiling was an illusion of sky and stars, complete with

intricacies of celestial mechanics, and the flooring resembled grassy

sward, set with miniature pools and cool, gurgling streams, crossed by

arching bridges of carved and tined ivory. Singing birds and trilling

winged serpents filled the air with sound and motion. Luminous bubbles

rose and burst above lighted, musical fountains. Musicians toyed with

the acrid melodies of ancient Mars, and only close inspection proved

the dancing girls 3-d projections.

It was a painstaking reproduction, pitiful and exquisite, of the richly

barbaric and luxuriant youth of a now-dying planet. To a Martian, it

would have been nostalgic and lovely. To Torry, fresh from the scent of

blood and death, it was a garish mockery, like a painted corpse.

Torry recoiled painfully, both from the setting and from the living man

who seemed part of it.

Sen Bas was as dried and shriveled as a Martian mummy. Only his eyes

seemed alive.

"You can put away your gun," said Sen Bas, his wrinkled face a mask of

malicious humor. "You are in no danger here."

Oddly, there was no feeling of menace, and Torry found himself putting

away his weapon. Will power beat from Sen Bas as it does from hypno

machines, and his personality held fearful compulsion.

"But he's--" began Tharol Sen hysterically.

Still smiling, Sen Bas nodded like a bizarre doll with a swinging

pendulum attached to its head. "No matter. Since we made a deal with

Roper when we picked him up off Phobos, we must do as he says ... in

some matters. Roper has gone ahead. He wants this man, Torry, sent to

him ... there. There is use for him ... where Roper has gone. Until

then, he is our guest, and we must show him every courtesy."

Torry studied the old man calmly. "You can use place names, Sen Bas. I

know about the transuranics on Triton and Pluto. But how could Roper

have gone ahead when we were using the transmitter? It can't be three

places at once."

Sen Bas frowned. "No, it cannot. Unfortunately, it has many

limitations. This is a second model copied by my engineers for study

and experiment. To our distress we have learned that ores of the heavy

metals cannot be transmitted since their radioactivity has an effect

on the force field. But now, with trouble coming, this model must be

destroyed."

From a pouch Sen Bas drew a tiny sub-sonic whistle upon which he blew

a soundless note. Martian technicians quickly appeared. Sen Bas issued

commands, and the transmitter was rapidly dismantled and removed to

incinerators.

"Good idea," approved Torry. "Ferax is dead. The police--"

"I know. The transmitter is not as instantaneous as it seems to the

user. Time also is distorted, as well as space. Hours have passed. You

are the last person known to have seen Ferax, so you are wanted by the

police and others for questioning. I was not certain you would come

through the screens, so my agents are scouring the city for you. Roper

has gone ahead to Triton, and wants you to join him there where we can

make contact."

"How long will that take?"

Sen Bas blinked. "Who knows? My scientists say it depends on the

relative positions of Triton and Mars. The best time will be in five

or six days, but you may have to go sooner. Tharol Sen can show

you around, and when the time is right, she will take you to the

transmitter. It is securely hidden where the police will not find it.

In the meantime--"

"I'm a prisoner?"

Sen Bas giggled. "Not exactly. Say, my guest. Your only jailers are

outside. Let us hope they will stay there until you can go to Roper ...

as he requested."

"Roper must have been in a hurry to get away," grated Torry.

"He was. For excellent reasons. A Solar Survey ship is due off Triton

at any time. Roper wanted to be in sole possession of the satellite,

with samples to make good his claims to minerals."

Suddenly, everything happened at once. Shrill alarms blared from a

dozen quarters. Red lights flared ominously. A fusillade of shots broke

out.