The girls squealed and laughed and dawdled.
* * * * *
House Bartock felt like laughing.
He'd just had his first big break, and it might turn out to be the only
one he needed. On an impulse, he had decided to strike out directly for
the spaceport. He had done so, and now stood on the dark tarmac between
the manifest shed and the pilot-barracks. And, not ten minutes after he
had reached the spacefield a cordon of guards rushed there from
Interstelpen had been stationed around the field. Had Bartock arrived
just a few minutes later, he would have been too late, his capture only
a matter of time. As it was now, though, he had a very good chance of
getting away. Circumstances were in his favor.
He could get so far away that they would never find him.
It was simple. Get off Triton on a spaceship. Go anyplace that had a big
spaceport, and manage to tranship out in secret. Then all the police
would have to search would be a few quadrillion square miles of space!
But first he had to leave Triton.
From the activity at the port, he could see that three ships were being
made ready for blastoff. Two of them were purely cargo-carriers, but the
third--Bartock could tell because he saw hand-luggage being
loaded--would carry passengers. His instinct for survival must have been
working overtime: he knew that the third ship would be his best bet, for
if he were discovered and pursued, hostages might make the difference
between recapture and freedom.
Bartock waited patiently in the darkness outside the pilot-barracks. The
only problem was, how to discover which pilot belonged to which ship?
The cordon of police from Interstelpen had set up several score
arc-lights on the perimeter of the field. The spaces between the lights
were patrolled by guards armed, as Bartock was, with blasters. Bartock
could never have made it through that cordon now. But it wasn't
necessary. He was already inside.
The barracks door opened, and a pilot came out. Tensing, ready, Bartock
watched him.
The three ships were scattered widely on the field, _Venus Bell_ to the
north, _Star of Hercules_ to the south, _Mozart's Lady_ to the east.
_Venus Bell_ and _Star of Hercules_ were straight cargo carriers.
_Mozart's Lady_--what a queer name for a spaceship, Bartock couldn't
help thinking--had taken in hand luggage. So if the pilot who had just
left the barracks headed east, Bartock would take him. The pilot paused
outside, lit a cigarette, hummed a tune. The scent of tobacco drifted
over to Bartock. He waited.
The pilot walked east toward _Mozart's Lady_.
* * * * *
"Ready, girls?"
"Ready, Mrs. Moriarity. But couldn't we--well--sort of hang around until
we see what happens?"
"You mean the escaped convict?"
"Yes, ma'am." Hopefully.
"They'll catch him. They always catch them."
"But--"
"Come on."
"Aw, gosh, Mrs. Moriarity."
"I said, come on."
Reluctantly, the hundred girls trooped with their chaperone from the
hotel.
* * * * *
Bartock struck swiftly and without mercy.
The blaster would make too much noise. He turned it around, held it by
the barrel, and broke the pilot's skull with it. In the darkness he
changed clothing for the second time that night, quickly, confidently,
his hands steady. In the darkness he could barely make out the pilot's
manifest. The man's ship was _Mozart's Lady_, all right. Outbound from
Triton City for Mars. Well, Bartock thought, he wouldn't go to Mars.
Assuming they learned what ship he had boarded, they would be guarding
the inner orbits too closely.
He would take _Mozart's Lady_ daringly outward, beyond Neptune's orbit.
Naturally, the ship wouldn't have interstellar drive, but as yet Bartock
wasn't going interstellar. You couldn't have everything. You couldn't
expect a starship on Triton, could you? So Bartock would take _Mozart's
Lady_ outward to Pluto's orbit--and wait. From the amount of hand
luggage taken aboard, _Mozart's Lady_ would be carrying quite a number
of passengers. If that number were reduced--drastically reduced--the
food, water and air aboard would last for many months. Until the fuss
died down. Until Bartock could bring _Mozart's Lady_, long since given
up for lost, in for a landing on one of the inner planets....
Now he dragged the dead pilot's body into the complete darkness on the
south side of the pilot-barracks, wishing he could hide it better but
knowing he didn't have the time or the means.
Then he walked boldly across the tarmac, wearing a pilot's uniform,
toward _Mozart's Lady_.
Fifteen minutes later, House Bartock watched with amazement while a
hundred pretty young women boarded the ship. Of all the things that had
happened since his escape, this came closest to unnerving him, for it
was the totally unexpected. Bartock shrugged, chain-smoked three
cigarettes while the women boarded slowly, taking last-minute looks at
dark Triton, the spaceport, the cordon of guards, the arc-lights.
Bartock cursed impotently. Seconds were precious now. The pilot's body
might be found. If it were....
At last the port clanged shut and the ground-crew tromped away. Since
even an over-age ship like _Mozart's Lady_ was close to ninety percent
automatic, there was no crew. Only the pilot--who was Bartock--and the
passengers.
Bartock was about to set the controls for blastoff when he heard
footsteps clomp-clomping down the companionway. He toyed with the idea
of locking the door, then realized that would arouse suspicion.
A square woman's face over a plump middle-aged figure.
"I'm Mrs. Moriarity, pilot. I have a hundred young girls aboard. We'll
have no nonsense."
"No, sir. I mean, no ma'am."
"Well, make sure."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And I want an easy trip, without fuss or incidents. For half of our
girls it's the second time in space--the first being when they came out
here. You understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What happened to the pilot who took us out?"
"Uh, pressed into service last week on a Mercury run. I'm surprised the
control board didn't tell you."
"They didn't. It doesn't matter. You do your job, and that's all."
"Yes, ma'am," House Bartock said. "Just my job."
A few moments later, _Mozart's Lady_ blasted off.
* * * * *
"Stop! Hey, wait!" Pitchblend Hardesty bawled at the top of his voice.
But it didn't do any good. The police rushed up behind Pitchblend, not
daring to fire.
Moments before, they had found the dead pilot's body.
They knew at once what it meant, of course. They had been not more than
a minute too late.
"Call Central Control on Neptune," a police officer said. "We'll send a
cruiser after them."
"Won't do any good," Pitchblend Hardesty groaned.
"What are you talking about, fellow?"
"Unless the cruiser's brand new."
"On Neptune? Don't be silly. Newest one we've got is ten years old."
"Like I said, won't do any good. I worked that ship over, mister. I know
what she's like inside. She may look like an over-age tub on the
outside, but don't let that fool you. She's got power, mister. She's
probably the fastest thing this side of the Jovian moons, except for
those experimental one-man rocket-bombs down at Neptune Station. But
chasing a big tub in a one-man space-bound coffin--" here Pitchblend
used the vernacular for the tiny one-man experimental ships--"ain't
going to do anybody any good. Best thing you can do is track _Mozart's
Lady_ by radar and hope she'll head sunward. Then they could intercept
her closer in."
But _Mozart's Lady_ did not head sunward. Radar tracking confirmed this
moments later. _Mozart's Lady_ was outward bound for Pluto's orbit. And,
with Pluto and Neptune currently in conjunction, that could even mean a
landing, although, the police decided, that wasn't likely. There were no
settlements on Pluto. Pluto was too weird. For the strangest reason in a
solar system and a galaxy of wonders, Pluto was quite uninhabitable.
More likely, _Mozart's Lady_ would follow Pluto's orbit around, then
make a dash sunward....
The radar officer threw up his hands. "I give up," he said. "She's
heading for Pluto's orb all right. Call Neptune Station."
"Neptune Station, sir?"
"You bet. This job's too big for me. The brass will want to handle it."
Seconds later, sub-space crackled with energy as the call was put
through from Triton City to Neptune Station.
* * * * *
Whatever else history would write about him, it would
certainly call Johnny Mayhem the strangest--and literally most
death-defying--test-pilot in history. Of course, testing the sleek
experimental beauties out of Neptune Station and elsewhere wasn't
Mayhem's chief occupation. He was, in a phrase, a trouble-shooter for
the Galactic League. Whenever he had a spare few weeks, having completed
an assignment ahead of schedule in his latest of bodies, he was likely
to turn up at some testing station or other and volunteer for work. He
was never turned down, although the Galactic League didn't approve.
Mayhem was probably the galaxy's best pilot, with incredible reflexes
and an utter indifference toward death.
For the past two weeks, having completed what turned out to be an
easier-than-expected assignment on Neptune, he had been piloting the
space-bound coffins out of Neptune Station, and with very satisfactory
experimental results.
A few minutes ago he had been called into the station director's office,
but when he entered he was surprised to see the Galactic League Firstman
of Neptune waiting for him.
"Surprised, eh?" the Firstman demanded.
"I'll bet you want me to quit test-flying," Mayhem said with a smile
which, clearer than words, told the Firstman his advice would be
rejected.
The Firstman smiled too, "Why, no, Mayhem. As a matter of fact, I want
you to take one of the coffins into deep space."
"Maybe something's wrong with my hearing," Mayhem said.
"No. You heard it right. Of course, it's up to you. Everything you do,
you volunteer."
"Let's hear it, Firstman."
So the Firstman of Neptune told Johnny Mayhem about _Mozart's Lady_
which, six hours ago, had left Triton for Pluto's orbit with an
eccentric wealthy widow, a hundred girls, and a desperate escaped
killer.
"The only thing we have out here fast enough to overtake them, Mayhem,
is the one-man coffins. The only man we have who can fly them is you.
What do you say?"
Mayhem's answer was a question, but the question didn't really require
an answer. Mayhem asked: "What are we waiting for?"
The Firstman grinned. He had expected such an answer, of course. The
whole galaxy, let alone the solar system, knew the Mayhem legend. Every
world which had an Earthman population and a Galactic League post,
however small, had a body in cold storage, waiting for Johnny Mayhem if
his services were required. But of course no one knew precisely when
Mayhem's services might be required. No one knew exactly under what
circumstances the Galactic League Council, operating from the hub of the
Galaxy, might summon Mayhem. And only a very few people, including those
at the Hub and the Galactic League Firstmen on civilized worlds and
Observers on primitive worlds, knew the precise mechanics of Mayhem's
coming.
Johnny Mayhem, a bodiless sentience. Mayhem--Johnny Marlow, then--who
had been chased from Earth, a pariah and a criminal, eight years ago,
who had been mortally wounded on a wild planet deep within the
Saggitarian Swarm, whose life had been saved--after a fashion--by the
white magic of that planet. Mayhem, doomed now to possible immortality
as a bodiless sentience, an _elan_, which could occupy and activate a
corpse if it had been frozen properly ... an _elan_ doomed to wander
eternally because it could not remain in one body for more than a month
without body and _elan_ perishing. Mayhem, who had dedicated his
strange, lonely life to the service of the Galactic League because a
normal life and normal social relations were not possible for him....
"One thing, Mayhem," the Firstman said, now, on Neptune. "How much
longer you have in that body of yours?"
"Five days. Possibly six."
"That doesn't give you much time. If you're caught out there when your
month is up--"
"I won't be. We're wasting time talking about it."
"--it would mean your death."
"Then let's get started."
* * * * *