His voice was cut off as two huge hands reached down and closed around
his throat. At the same instant Tarnuff leaped forward and knocked the
pistol from his hand.
"That old trick, eh? But sometimes it works. Nice going, Oruk."
"Heard voices--came to see," a gruff voice said.
Jordan was dangling, his toes barely touching the ground. He couldn't
breathe. The hands tightened still more, as very powerful arms hauled
him up into the airlock. There the hands loosened, and Jordan crumpled
to the floor, half conscious. He was barely aware of Tarnuff climbing
in, and his voice saying:
"Throw him in one of the empty cabins, Oruk, then stand by in the
rocket room. We're taking off. I'll attend to the brave Earthman later."
* * * * *
Ron came back to full consciousness, his head spinning dizzily as the
blood rushed back. He was lying on the floor of a bare metal room. The
door was locked, as expected. Were they in space already? He hadn't
heard the throb of the rockets. He rushed to the port and looked out.
No, they were still resting in the dark hollow of Ceres. He tried the
port, and to his surprise it swung open. That meant they'd be rising
very soon, else Oruk wouldn't have been so careless.
Ron estimated his chances, and made up his mind quickly. He'd have to
get out of here while he could, then find another entrance whereby he
could gain the control room where Tarnuff was. At least the element of
surprise would be in his favor. He clambered through the port and slid
down the smooth curve of the ship, finally dropping to the ground ten
feet below.
There were four airlocks, one pair amidships and the other pair near
the prow. He tried them all. All were tightly sealed. He ran back
toward the stern, looking up at the row of ports. But there were no
handholds for him there, even if he could have leaped up and reached
them. He stopped suddenly at the huge, rectangular under-hull repulsion
plates. No, there was no entrance that way. Even as he looked at them,
he heard their low steady hum begin; the entire hull began quivering.
He ran on, and reached the rear fin just as the ship began to lift.
With a little prayer he leaped and pulled himself up.
It was a foolhardy thing to do, Ron knew that, even as he was climbing
atop a six-foot tube by using the smaller tubes as a ladder. He knew
the atmosphere ended about a half-mile up; he also knew that if those
tubes started blasting suddenly he'd be a cinder in no time at all.
He gained his precarious perch, and moved along toward the rocket-room
port a dozen feet ahead of him. Luckily the spacer was lifting slowly.
He reached the port and peered in. Oruk, a huge Jovian brute, was
facing half away from Ron; his hands were on the fuel levers as though
awaiting orders from Tarnuff.
The spacer stopped rising, just clear of the cliffs. The air was
tenuous, barely breathable now. With frantic fingers Ron tugged at the
rim around the heavy glass port. It was useless. At the same instant
he saw Oruk throw several levers. The small tubes on which Ron was
standing began to vibrate, and he could feel increasing heat through
his heavy shoes.
Desperately he raised one foot and crashed his heel against the
glass. It rang hollowly, but didn't break. Oruk turned at the sound,
a startled look on his huge stupid face. Again Ron lashed out, and a
third time. The glass crashed inward just as Oruk advanced toward him
with powerful long arms reaching out.
The heat under Ron's feet was unbearable now. Heedless of the ragged
glass, he grabbed the upper edge of the port and launched his entire
body through, feet first. His feet caught the advancing Oruk squarely
in the chest and sent him staggering back. Ron himself crashed to the
floor.
He arose just as Oruk came at him again with slow deliberateness.
Ron glanced hurriedly around for a weapon, but there was nothing. He
ducked under the reaching arms, crashed a blow to the Jovian's body and
another to his face. He saw Oruk grin. He tried to escape the arms, but
they found him and closed around him crushingly. Ron struggled, but
his own arms were pressed tight in that relentless grip. He could only
stare up into the grayish face that was still grinning. The breath was
slowly leaving him, the pressure on his lungs agonizing. He brought
his knee up sharply into Oruk's side, but couldn't reach it. Suddenly
Tarnuff's voice came through the communicating tube:
"All right, Oruk, full power now. All tubes!"
The pressure of Oruk's arms loosened for a moment as he stared around.
At the same time Ron feigned unconsciousness. His head dropped forward,
and he allowed his whole body to go limp. Oruk dropped him to the floor
and turned to the tube.
Instantly Ron was on his feet, but silently. One leap brought him to
Oruk's side, and he snatched out the pistol. Even as the Jovian was
turning, Ron pressed it hard against his side and released the trigger.
It wasn't an electro-gun, it was one of the Martian-style pistols that
fired tiny atomic bullets. The bullet entered Oruk's side and exploded
at once, tearing a gaping hole through him. He staggered forward, his
mouth open ludicrously as though he would speak; only a gurgling sound
emerged, then he crashed to the floor.
* * * * *
Ron wasted a moment to lean weakly against the wall. Suddenly he saw
that the ship was rising again, the air of this room swiftly escaping
through the shattered port. Tarnuff was calling:
"Oruk! I said full power!"
Ron leaped to an iron locker, wrenched it open and saw a pair of
space-suits. Quickly he donned one, and clamped the helmet down just as
the utter cold of space swept into the room. He pressed the oxygen-tank
release and breathed gratefully as air came flowing into the helmet.
Then he stepped to the bank of fuel levers and pulled them all down.
The spacer leaped forward, leaving Ceres far behind as triple blasts of
fire streamed from the huge tubes.
Pulling Oruk's huge body after him, Ron stepped quickly into the
interior of the ship and stood a moment, listening. Not a sound came
from Tarnuff, far forward in the control room. Ron dragged Oruk's body
to the central airlock, and gave it a decent burial in space. Not until
then did he divest himself of the cumbersome space-suit. He examined
the atom pistol and saw there were still five or six charges in the
firing chamber. Then he moved forward, opened the control room door
silently and stood just within the threshold.
Tarnuff was hunched over the calculation table, his back to the
door. Once or twice he reached out and moved a directional-finder
infinitesimally to agree with the chart. Ron watched silently, a grim
smile on his lips. Not until Tarnuff straightened up from his task did
Ron speak:
"For the second time, Tarnuff--hello."
The Martian whirled around in the seat, saw Ron with the pistol
levelled.
"You!" he exclaimed, starting to spring up but sinking down again.
"So--you broke out, eh? That clumsy fool, Oruk, wait'll I get my hands
on him." His face darkened.
Ron laughed aloud. "You'll have a hard time doing that. Your
strong-arm pal is a thousand miles behind us in space by this time.
Yes," he answered the other's questioning eyes, "I blasted a hole
through him." He gestured to the Martian's belt. "I'll take that pistol
now; I asked for it a little while ago, you remember. First stand up,
then toss it to me--careful!"
Tarnuff obeyed, sullenly. Ron caught the pistol and jammed it in his
belt.
"And now my electro-gun, please. That's right. Thanks. You've got your
course charted?"
"Yes."
"For where?"
"Callisto."
"Good enough for the time being. Now lock those controls and sit down
at the table again. We'll get down to business."
"I haven't any business with you, Earthman."
"Oh, yes you have, but you don't know it yet. Sit down!" Ron shoved the
pistol at him meaningly.
Tarnuff complied, appearing more puzzled than he was sullen. But he did
not remain puzzled long, as Ron drew out a folded paper and handed it
to him.
"I'm Ron Jordan. The name may mean something to you when you've read
that. You will then sign it, if you wish to ever leave this ship alive."
Ron watched him closely as he read, and he saw comprehension slowly
dawn in the Martian's eyes. Tarnuff finished the brief, but concise
story of the asteroid incident as related by Carl Jordan. Then he
looked up with an almost contemptuous smile on his lips.
"Ah, yes, I remember now. Your brother, I presume. I had heard on
the telecast that he was sentenced for smuggling Silicytes. Most
unfortunate."
"Unfortunate for you, right now. Sign!"
Tarnuff calmly ignored the menacing pistol and said:
"But this statement implicates me most seriously, Ron Jordan. I do not
like that."
"Sign," Ron said through clenched teeth, "or I blast you here and now."
Tarnuff shook his head. "That's one thing I know you won't do. Not
without my signature. You need it too badly."
"Do I? You forget one thing, Tarnuff. The Patrol's still looking for
a ship named _Lucifer_ and your attempt to disguise it was pretty
clumsy. I had intended to let you escape at your convenience, but now
I'll just have to take you _and_ this ship back to Earth. That should
be conclusive enough."
But Tarnuff was smiling blandly, leaning back in the chair. He was
hugely amused at something, and Ron was vaguely worried without exactly
knowing why.
"No, Ron Jordan," the Martian was saying. "I don't think you'll dare
set this spacer on Earth or any other planet."
"Why not?"
"Because you know too well the penalty for Silicyte smuggling. Has
it not occurred to you what my cargo is? I'm carrying a full load of
Silicytes at this moment. As soon as you set down anywhere I'll swear
to the authorities that you're my accomplice in this. They'll believe
it, too, in view of what happened to your brother; they'll think slave
trading runs in your family!" Tarnuff laughed harshly, looking up at
Ron's suddenly perplexed face.
* * * * *
It was several seconds before Ron could realize the implication of the
words. Then he said explosively:
"I don't believe you!"
"You don't believe I've got the Silicytes aboard? Come and see for
yourself."
Ron knew by the man's cool insolence that he spoke the truth. But he
followed Tarnuff back into the ship anyway, keeping him at pistol
point. The Martian unlocked and threw back several doors ... and there
were the Silicytes. Only twice in his life had Ron ever seen the queer
creatures, and never at this close range.
They stood erect, and were roughly human in shape, but that's as far as
the resemblance went. They were formed of thousands of faceted crystals
which clung together with peculiar cohesion, flashing iridescently
whenever they moved! Instead of arms, dozens of chain-like crystalline
tentacles hung down from a position near the shoulders. The creatures
appeared so brittle and fragile that it seemed they would fall apart
at the slightest touch, but this was purely illusion. They possessed
a dull sort of intelligence but obeyed instructions implicitly once
they understood, and they'd work for tremendous lengths of time to earn
the scraps of metal which they absorbed and relished. For this reason
they brought fabulous prices on such outposts as Callisto, despite the
fact that the owners had to work them discreetly, hiding them whenever
inspectors came.
"You see, Jordan?" Tarnuff said, closing the doors. "And that's only
part of 'em. I've got over a hundred aboard. You can put the pistol
away now, you won't need it." He moved past Ron and back to the control
room.
Ron followed him slowly, pondering the unexpected and hazardous
situation he found himself in. Hazardous because the Patrol had a
special contingent in the asteroid lanes in an effort to stop the
Silicyte smuggling which had reached unprecedented heights in the past
year. Tarnuff was right--he dared not take this ship back to Earth now;
and if a Patrol ship intercepted them in space, he'd soon be keeping
Carl company in the Venus prison-swamp.
No he wouldn't, either! Worse than that. Caught red-handed with
Silicytes in transit would mean the death penalty.
"Well, it's your move, Jordan." The Martian's voice, his entire mien,
was one of amused complacency. He stepped to the controls. "Shall I
re-chart for Earth?"
"No!" The word came explosively, and Ron was immediately sorry.