It took Dyann Korlas about two Earth-days to decide that she didn't
like Ganymede.
The Jovians had been very courteous, apologized in a stiff way for the
unfortunate misunderstanding aboard ship, and assigned her a brawny
young sergeant as guide. Their armament was much more in evidence and
much more interesting than Earth's but granting that spaceships and
atomic bombs and guided missiles were more effective than swords and
bows and mounted lancers, they took all the fun out of war and left
nothing to plunder. She missed the brawling mirth of the war-camps of
Varann among these bleak-faced and endlessly marching men in their drab
uniforms.
The civilians were almost as depressingly clad, and even more orderly
and obedient than those of Earth. Only the arrogant, bemedaled officer
caste had any touch of dash or glamor about it. The Terrestrial concept
of sexual equality had been interesting, even exciting in a way, but
these Jovians had inverted the natural order of things to a repulsive
extent.
She had seen the sights, and those were impressive enough--the grim
rocky face of Ganymede, with mighty Jupiter eternally high in the dusky
heavens; the bustling, crowded, machine-crammed underground cities,
level after level of apartments, farms, factories, shops, barracks--but
Earth could show more. Her guide promised to take her to the other
moons of the Jovian Confederacy but she felt as bored by the thought as
he seemed to be.
She got the impression that she was hurried along, from sight to sight
and speech to speech, without ever a chance to talk to anyone and find
out what really was dreamed and striven for on this land. To be sure,
the Jovians all talked endlessly about a superior way of life and their
right to return to the green vales of Earth whence their forefathers
had been cruelly made to flee. But if they were going to fight why
didn't they just hop in their ships and go there?
The dictator's face seemed to be framed wherever she turned, a small
and puffy-eyed man in an elaborate uniform. Martin Wilder the Great.
Her guide the sergeant, one Robert Hamand, said in an awed tone that
she might be introduced to the dictator. He looked hurt when she yawned.
And what had become of Ray? Hamand knew nothing and seemed to care
less. The secret police officer had said he would be held for a short
time as a lesson and then released but surely he'd look her up if he
were free. She contrasted the Earthling's liveliness with the quiet men
of Varann and thought that he would be an ornament to anyone's harem
even if there couldn't be issue between the two species.
On the third day, as she got up, she decided to ask counsel of Ormun.
She washed, singing a cheerful song of clattering swords and sundering
skulls, stowed away a breakfast that would have sufficed two humans,
and walked into the sitting room of the apartment assigned her.
Hamand was waiting, very straight and correct in his uniform. "Good
day," he said, bowing from the waist. "Today we will go topside again
and visit the Devil's Garden. Then at eleven forty-five proceed to
Robinsburg where we will lunch until thirteen hundred and then go on
to--"
"I must take an omen first," said Dyann.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You need not do so, you have done no wrong." Dyann prostrated herself
before the god. Then, struck with a sudden thought, gestured at Hamand.
"You too."
"What?" cried the sergeant.
"You too. She might be offended if you do not pray."
"Madam," said Hamand, stiff with indignation, "I am a Jovian of the
machine age, not a savage groveling before superstition."
* * * * *
Dyann got up, knocked him to the floor, and rubbed his nose in the
carpet before Ormun. "You vill please to grovel," she said urbanely.
"It is good manners." She laid herself prone again, keeping one hand
on the sergeant's head, and repeated several magic formulas. Then she
rose to her knees, fished three Centaurian dice from her pocketed kilt,
and tossed them.
"Ah-hah," she said. "The omen says--hm, let me see now, I am not a
_marya_. I think they say go to Urushkidan." She bowed deeply before
Ormun. "Thank you, my lady. Now come, we go find Urushkidan."
"You can't!" gibbered Hamand. "He's doing important work. He's at the
Academy--"
Dyann strolled out and he trailed futilely in her wake, still
protesting. She inquired her way along the many tunnels and corridors
and ramps to the Academy of Science. There were no slideways. Everyone
walked. The Jovian leaders, with their concern over physical fitness,
insisted that there be as much assorted exercises as possible to
compensate for Ganymede's low gravity. To Dyann, weight was feathery.
She bounded twenty or thirty feet at a time when the crowd thinned
enough.
The Academy, a combined college and technical research institute, had a
good-sized sector to itself. There was a broad open space covered with
turf and the uniformed students and professors went from one to another
of the doors which opened on the grass. Dyann loomed over an undersized
academician who gibbered in answer to her that Dr. Urushkidan was in
_that_ sector and then scuttled away.
There was an armed sentry in front of the door. Seeing none elsewhere,
Dyann concluded shrewdly that he was posted because of the potential
military applications of Urushkidan's work. He slanted his rifle across
her path. "Halt!"
"I must see the Martian," said Dyann mildly. "Please to let me by."
"No one sees him without a pass," said the guard.
Dyann shoved him aside and opened the door. He yelled and grabbed her
arm. That was his big mistake.
"A man," said the Varannian reprovingly, "should have respect for
women." She yanked the rifle from him and hit him in the stomach with
the butt. He flew across the plaza, retching, rolled to one elbow,
and snatched at his sidearm. Dyann leaped, landing on his face with a
crunch of bone and a small explosion of blood and teeth.
She turned back, hefting the rifle appreciatively. The Earthlings on
Varann had been regrettably stingy about giving modern weapons to the
natives. Assorted people, including Hamand, fled in all directions as
she entered the doorway.
Down a long hall, peering into the rooms on either side, up a
staircase--another sentry before a frosted-glass door gaped at her.
She smiled reassuringly, moved close to him, and got her hands on his
throat. Shortly thereafter she had his rifle and revolver.
Loud voices drifted through the door and Dyann, who was not at all
stupid, listened with interest. One was--yes, that was Urushkidan
himself, bubbling like an indignant teakettle.
"I will not, sir, do you hear me? I will not. And I demand a return
passage from tis foul satellite at once!"
"Come now, Dr. Urushkidan, be reasonable." Was that the voice of
Roshevsky-Feldkamp? "After all, can you complain of your treatment?
You have Mars-conditioned quarters, servants, high pay, every
consideration."
"I came here to lecture and complete my mathematical research. Now
I find you habe arranged no lectures for me and expect me to--to
superbise an--an _engineering_ project! As if--as if I were a
mere--empiricist!"
"But Dr. Urushkidan--after all, science advances by checking its
theory against the facts. If with your help we create the first
faster-than-light ship, it will be a triumphant confirmation of--"
"My teories need no confirmation. Tey are a debelopment of certain
relatibity postulates, a piece of pure matematics in all its elegance
and beauty. If tey agree or disagree wit te facts, tat is of no
interest to any proper natibe of Uttu. Te matematics is enough, and
I will habe noting to do wit applied physics. And furtermore--"
The squeaky voice rose even higher--"you want only te military
applications, you would habe me stoop to such bulgarity. You do not
appreciate me, and I am going back to Uttu!"
"I am afraid," said the man slowly, "that that is impossible."
Dyann entered. "Are they annoyin you?" she asked.
* * * * *
Urushkidan whirled about. The room was thick with the fumes of his
pipe, and one of the two Jovians with him--a bald man in the black
uniform of the secret police--was holding a handkerchief to his nose.
The other one was Roshevsky-Feldkamp, who started to his feet with an
oath and grabbed for his revolver.
Dyann held her own stolen gun on his midriff. "No," she said.
"What are you doing here?" gasped the officer.
"Vere is Ray Ballantyne?"
"Get out! Guards--"
Dyann took one long leap across the office, seized Roshevsky-Feldkamp
by the neck and hammered his forehead against the desk. Her free hand
covered the secret policeman. "Vere is Ray Ballantyne?" she repeated.
"I am glad you came," said Urushkidan. "Shall we leabe tis uncibilised
place?"
Two armed soldiers appeared in the doorway. Dyann brought her gun
around. The silenced weapon hissed. One of the men tumbled with a hole
drilled in his forehead. She was rather proud of herself, she'd never
had much chance for target practice.
There wasn't much time for self-praise, though. The other man already
had his rifle up. Dyann dropped behind the desk, and the stream of
slugs ripped through the wood after her. She bunched her muscles and
threw the desk. There was a crash of splintering wood as it knocked
down the Jovian.
The secret police officer had his gun out and trained on her.
Urushkidan snaked forth a tentacle and pulled him off his feet. Dyann
stopped to slug Roshevsky-Feldkamp before she got her hands about the
policeman's throat.
"Vere is Ray Ballantyne?" she growled.
"Come on, come on, we habe to get out of here!" wailed the Martian.
"Vich is the vay out?"
"I'll show you--come along, quick--tis way."
Dyann frogmarched the Jovian cop toward a rear door. Booted feet were
thudding up the stairs toward the office. Urushkidan held a pistol in
each hand, gingerly as if he feared they would blow up. He led the way
into a hall and down a long, echoing ramp.
"Hurry, hurry," he gasped. "Shalmuannusar, we habe te whole Jobian
Confederacy after us!"
A voice bellowed atop the ramp and a slug whanged after them. Dyann
whirled and fired back, using the helplessly pinioned captive as a
shield. They retreated slowly, rounding a corner and going on down a
long slope to a heavy steel door.
Urushkidan opened it, slamming it frantically as they went through.
They were in a hangar where several small spaceships rested on their
rail-mouthed cradles. Mechanics stared at the trio.
"Quick!" snapped the Martian. "Te laboratory ships!"
The prisoner opened his mouth. Dyann laid a friendly hand on the back
of his neck and squeezed a little.
"Yes, yes, the laboratory ship--practice maneuvers--hurry!" the man
said.
"Aye, sir! At once!" A life time's training in blind obedience spoke
there, behind the puzzled faces.
A teardrop-shaped rocket was trundled forth. Dyann looked nervously
back at the door. Pursuit was most likely playing it safe, posting men
outside while others went around to block all remaining exits. Once
that was done they'd close in.
"I'll warm up the engine for you, sir," said one of the mechanics.
"Ve'll take it now," said Dyann.
"But you can't! You'll carbon the tubes--be likely to crash--"
"I said now." Dyann propelled her captive ahead of her through the
airlock and Urushkidan crawled after. The valves clanged shut after
them.
"I hope you can fly vun of these thins," said Dyann, lashing the secret
policeman to a recoil chair.
"I hope so too," said Urushkidan.
Dyann stood over her prisoner. "Vere is Ray Ballantyne?" she asked.
"The Earthman who vas arrested off the liner a few days ago."
"I don't know," he gasped.
Dyann drew her knife, smiling nastily.
"Camp Muellenhoff, you savage! Outside the city, to the north. You'll
never make it. You'll kill us all."
The cradle rumbled forward to the hangar airlock. Urushkidan took the
pilot chair and strapped himself in and relit his pipe with nervous
boneless fingers. Dyann whistled tunelessly between her teeth. It was
dark in the airlock chamber as the pumps evacuated it.
"Why bother wit tis Ballantyne?" asked the Martian. "What claim has he
on us? It will need all our luck and my genius for us to escape with
our own lives."
"We need his luck too, maybe," said Dyann shortly.
* * * * *
The outer valve swung open and they trundled over the rails to the
surface of Ganymede. Behind them, the dome covering the city rose
against a background of saw-toothed mountains and dark, faintly
star-lit sky. A dwarfed sun lit the spaceport field with pale cold
luminance. There were not many vessels in sight, no liner or freighter
was in and the military ports were elsewhere. One lean black patrol
ship stood not far off.
"They vill be out after us soon," said Dyann. "Vat can you do about
that boat there, huh?"
"We will see," said Urushkidan. He touched studs, levers, and buttons.
The engines thuttered and the little vessel shook.
"Let's go!"
The rocket stood on her tail and climbed for the sky. Urushkidan
brought her around, the gyros screaming at his clumsy management, and
lowered her on her jets directly above the patrol ship. An atom-driven
ion-blast is not good for a patrol ship.
"Now," said Dyann as they took off again, "you, my policeman friend,
vill call this Camp Muellenhoff and tell them to release Ballantyne to
us. If you do that, ve vill set you down somevere. If not--vell--" She
tested the edge of her knife on his ear. "You may still be a police,
but you vill not be very alive."
"You can't escape," said the Jovian with a certain hollow lack of
conviction. "You'd better throw yourself on the Leader's mercy."
Dyann knocked a few teeth loose.
"You savage!" he gasped. "You cruel, murdering--"
"I tought you Jobians were always talking about te glories of war and
te rutless superman," snickered Urushkidan. "Also destiny and tings.
Better call te camp as she says."
A few minutes later the ship lowered into the walled enclosure of Camp
Muellenhoff. It was a dreary place, metal barracks lying harsh under
the guns of the watchtowers, spacesuited prisoners clumping to work
through the thin chill air of Ganymede. A detail hurried up and shoved
an unarmed, suited form into the airlock.
Their leader's voice rattled over his helmet radio of the ship's
telereceiver, "Major, sir, are you sure they want this man in the
city now? We just got an alert to look out for a couple of escaped
desperadoes."
Dyann slammed the outer valve in his face by the remote-control lever
and the little ship stood on her tail again and flamed skyward.
A somewhat battered Ray Ballantyne crawled out of his suit and blinked
at them. It had been a rough two or three days, though they hadn't gone
very far with him. The truth drugs must have satisfied them that he was
not an intentional spy, and thereafter they had simply held him until
orders for his execution should come. He swayed into Dyann's arms.
"Oh, my poor Ray," she murmured. "My poor, poor little Earthlin."
"Hey, wait a minute," he began weakly.
"Just lie still, I will take care of you."
"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. Lemme go!"
They sat down again on a remote mountaintop, gave the policeman a
spacesuit, and kicked him out of the ship. He was still wailing about
barbarous and inhuman treatment. He said something too about wild
beasts.
"And now," said Dyann, "let us get back to Earth before the Yovians
find us."
"This crate'll never make Earth," said Ray. "I've flown 'em--let me at
those controls, Urushkidan."
They heard it as well, the ominous sizzling and knocking from the
engine-room shields, and felt the ship tremble with it.
"Is tat te carboning te man was talking about?" asked the Martian
innocently.
"I'm--afraid--so." Ray shook his head. "We'll have to land somewhere
before the rockets quit altogether. Then it'll take a week for the
radioactivity to get low enough so we can go back there and clean them
out."
"And all the Yovian army, navy, police, and fire department out chasin
us by now," said Dyann. Her clear brow wrinkled. "I fear that Ormun is
offended because I left her amon the heathen back there. I am afraid
our luck is runnin' low."
"And," said Ray bleakly, "how!"