It was scrawny little Captain Irak who had spoken. An apologetic smile
bracketed his lips and he was shaking his head slowly. Lolan knew a
warm rush of gratitude toward him. Ugly as he was, he was intelligent
and less sadistic than many of the officers. He said little--which made
the Sub-Commander suspect he knew much.
Arzt grunted, puzzled, "You wouldn't--? Why not, you grinning, ugly
little ape?"
Irak kept on smiling blandly. "Look outside," he advised.
Arzt did, but still kept his hold on the old man. There were a score of
shabby Venusians peering in from the dark street like wolves around a
fire on the high Martian steppes. They fell back under the impact of so
many eyes.
Irak closed the door. "Kill Atarkus tonight and by morning we'll have
a first-class revolution on our hands," he said. "These people worship
Atarkus and his daughter. If he is to die, it must be otherwise ...
secretly, perhaps, in the dungeons where no one will ever learn."
Arzt's hands fell to his side. "There's wisdom in what you say," he
begrudged. "Especially ... the last part. But if I find the proof I
need of their guilt tonight, there'll be no waiting. We can try, and
execute them, publicly. Search the woman, Lolan. I'll search this
ancient blasphemer myself."
Lolan hesitantly fell to the task. "I'm sorry!" he whispered. She gave
no sign that she had heard, no indication that it meant any more or
less to her that he must perform the job than anyone else; nor had
Lolan ever known if she returned his feelings. Their meetings had
been few, when they had come to Arzt's court-martial occasionally to
plead for their countrymen on some matter. With his pulses racing, he
searched her gown thoroughly and found no suspicious articles. He was
red-faced and perspiring when Arzt barked:
"Then that devil's got it! Search Lugo, men!"
That order was the cue for the lanky Venusian to hurl himself from the
arms of his captors. "The sewer!" Lolan gasped. Lugo was heading for
the black-mouthed hole to hurl himself into the underground river two
hundred feet below ... himself and anything he carried!
The young Martian did not stop to reason that Ars Lugo might be
carrying the evidence that would send Mora and her father to their
deaths. He acted purely by instinct, flinging himself upon the
revolutionary and dragging him to the floor. But Lugo was up again,
like a released spring. Lolan crawled frantically after him. He grabbed
a heel, brought the Venusian spinning about while he lurched to his
feet. A jabbing fist sent him reeling back. In the next moment Ars Lugo
was diving feet first down the hole!
Lolan's muscles had been leaned to spring-steel tautness in rigorous
Martian military exercises. It was only that whiplash power of them
that enabled him to grasp one of Ars Lugo's hands as he vaulted the low
rim. In a flash he knew his error. The Venusian's weight was hauling
him across the smooth floor and into the pit of death!
* * * * *
There was a moment of un-thinking panic, of hearing the distant roar of
tumbling black water and the savage grunts of the man dangling below
him. Someone grabbed his feet and his headlong plunge was arrested.
Arzt was shouting: "Hold him! Don't let him get away with that paper!"
Lolan fought the burning numbness of his forearm. Ars Lugo had ripped
off a belt-buckle and was slashing at his knuckles with it. The men
above kept shouting encouragement while they fought for leverage. Every
sinew in the Martian's body stood out in ridges and knots. Sweat
bathed his flesh, and he knew that moisture was causing Lugo to slip
still further. "Hurry!" he groaned. "I can't--"
With startling abruptness he was flying out of the hole, while Ars
Lugo, with strips of skin under his fingernails that he had ripped
from Lolan's hand, went spinning down into black nothingness. Pain had
beaten determination. Ars Lugo had won--death!
Horror held the officers around the hole like statues, staring down. It
was during that interval that Lolan felt a hard, slippery object in his
hand. He opened it to see the bracelet Ars Lugo had worn, which he had
somehow torn loose. A curious, heavy ornament of iridite crystals and
onyx, and on the inside of it strange scratchings, like--
Like a map! Some impulse caused Lolan's fingers to clamp on the
bracelet. Arzt was staring.
"And there goes our chance for a quick disposal of these other two," he
grunted sourly. "If you could have ... well, it's done now." Briskly
he gave an order. "Take them home. But remember this, Venusians--your
consorting with revolutionaries has marked you for death! At any day,
any hour, I may have you seized and brought back."
Atarkus paused scornfully on the threshold. Mora had already gone, her
head high and eyes straight ahead. "We don't frighten easily," the
old ruler flung back. "When you live in hell as we do, one more pit
of damnation merely serves to bore us. May you boil in your own lard,
Martian pig!"
Arzt swore at him and half-drew his pistol. Sneering, then, he relaxed
and turned to fix Lolan with a burning glance. "Your failure tonight
intrigues me," he offered suggestively. "You never seemed to be
hindered by pain to that extent before."
Lolan showed him his bleeding fingers, from which great drops of blood
were falling. "It was the shock," he murmured. "You don't think I let
him escape on purpose--!"
"I hardly imagine you could be so foolish. At any rate, you'll be given
a chance to redeem yourself. Sometime in the next three or four days I
want those two killed, very quietly and--very thoroughly. The honor is
to be yours."
Lolan's shocked eyes flashed to a pair of burning, amused ones. Arzt's
broad lips were smiling fixedly. The young officer tried to mask his
horror. "Let someone else do it," he countered. "Killing women is out
of my line."
"Killing _that_ woman, you mean!" the Commander pounced on him. "I've
known what was in your mind all these months. I hoped you'd see the
foolishness of it. You're too good a man to lose inside the execution
chamber. What's the matter with you, Lolan? Are you deceiving yourself
that these damned Venusian dogs are good enough for a Martian officer?"
Hatred swept Lolan suddenly like a flame. With difficulty he held his
voice to a flat, deadly hiss. "Good enough! Too good, if you ask me!
I'm sick of driving sick men into mines reeking of sulphur fumes, to
dig iridite for us to decorate our uniforms with. Tired of seeing
them live like animals, in filthy shacks ready to fall in on them or
in tenements crawling with vermin. If cracking a bloody whip is what
being a Martian officer means, I'm ashamed of being one. I'd change my
Sub-Commander's rank here for that of a private back on Mars!"
Arzt's face grew hot and red with a dark suffusion of blood. "The only
transfer I'll give you is to Rock Island, on the Fluorine Sea," he
grated. "Would that suit you better?"
Lolan's spine crawled. Rock Island was a tiny hump of land in the
middle of a sea perpetually blanketed in fogs--fogs laden with deadly
fluorine. But someone had to keep the light on that island to guide
incoming space-ships. The keepers usually lasted about six weeks. "In
other words, I stay here or I die!" he stated flatly.
"Exactly. So let's hear the last of this. If you complain again I'll
take it as treason. Remember my orders: In four days I want to see
their bodies in the dead-house. If I don't--it will be yours I'll see
there!"
* * * * *
Lolan's first chance to examine the bracelet was in the solitude of his
room an hour later. He drew all the shades, while a feeling of tension
built stiflingly within him. Under the soft glow of a lamp he studied
it.
Plainly he traced the outlines of all the buildings in the rambling
system of barracks that sprawled over the hill. Rooms had been marked
in by someone who knew the set-up. The Martian received a stiff jolt at
seeing his room, and Arzt's, marked with X's. Marked for death, he knew!
Lolan's fist closed on the bauble. He let his glance go to the
curtained window, seeming to see through and beyond it. A tumult of
jarring thoughts rang harsh discordance in his mind. But clear and
sharp sounded one note, that his hands must slay Mora and her father
or he himself would die. No night-long brain-wracking was needed for
him to know that he preferred death to carrying out Arzt's orders. But
perhaps ... there was another way!
Lolan stood rigid, letting the idea revolve in his mind. Abruptly, he
swung from the window, jamming the bracelet onto his own wrist. He left
his room silently, and through the dim corridors he found his way to
the commissionary. His private keys unlocked the dark vaults. Carefully
shutting the door, he switched on the lights.
Piles of goods were everywhere, looming in long rows before him and
filling great bins. The Martian's nerves set up a raw tingling as he
found a box and hurried to a bin. Five nervous minutes passed, with
Lolan piling preserved foods of all kinds into the box. As a last item,
he buried a pair of _sadon_ pistols in the mass of foodstuffs.
Grim resolution was in the hard set of his jaw when he switched off the
lights, re-locked the place, and left by a back entrance. He was able
to reach a pursuit ship in the hangar and load his stuff in without
being observed. Panic struck at him, then ... a sentry's running feet
sounded outside!
Lolan sprang to the door. He eased through it, to be speared by the
man's torch. Casually, he nodded to him.
"Oh! Sorry, sir, I didn't realize it was an officer," the sentry
apologized. "Taking your ship out this late?"
Lolan said crisply, "Official business down below. Go back to your
post. I can manage it alone."
The sentry clicked his heels, saluted, and departed. Lolan's knees
shook a little. He rolled the battered pursuit ship out and hurriedly
entered it. Hope that the guard didn't realize he wasn't taking his
private ship tonight kept him glancing around at the dim form of the
sentry. On that fact hinged his life.
Then he was slamming the accelerator on full. The ship screamed upward,
borne aloft on the green mushroom of flame. Almost immediately he had
crossed the city and gained the plains beyond. In a broken expanse of
rock and sand just outside the lower quarter, he set the craft down
gently.
No one saw him enter the city. He threaded the tortuous alleys of the
squalid section with his heart hammering in his ears. At last he was
stopping across from a large, five-story building. It was a ponderous,
gabled affair full of reminiscences of former glory--elaborate cornices
crumbling away, great, metal doors green with age, once white walls now
streaked with black and gray. In carved Venusian characters, a plaque
over the door lamented: "Hall of Justice."
Lolan was thinking of that sad commentary as he ascended to the top
floor. Justice--when the man who once ruled this entire planet now
lived on crusts in a tiny room in the tower!
It was Princess Mora whose hand opened the door at his knock. In the
dim light of the room, her face showed sad and accusing. "What?" she
asked bitterly. "Haven't you done with persecuting us for one night?"
Atarkus looked up from a table where he had been poring over old
Venusian books, a pair of spectacles perched on his beak-nose. "Well,
speak!" he shrilled finally. "What miserable errand brings you here?"
Lolan's face was hard. He kept his glance on Mora's widening eyes as
he took off Ars Lugo's bracelet and extended it to her. "Ars Lugo died
trying to hide this," he growled. "I thought you might like to save it.
But as a favor--would you mind taking the black cross off my quarters?"