Authors: Mike Jurist
Kerry straightened, said in awe: "This stuff is compressed energy of the order of a dwarf star. This little cube weighs at least a ton. No wonder Pyotra, for all his scientific knowledge and equipment, was able only to get out these two so far.
He tried to brush his hand across his face, forgetting that the helmet was on. "But it won't matter to us," he said wearily.
“Has anyone found any drink pellets yet."
"Not a one!" they chorused.
Kerry stared up at the overlay of fog, tried to pierce its colorful depths. If only he hadn't given such definite orders to the
Flash
to keep going!
Already his tongue was beginning to swell, and his mouth felt as though it were stuffed with spun fiber. He stared at the others. Jem's lips were working ominously. He caught Kerry's gaze and stopped their movement. Sally met his eyes with a wan attempt at a smile. Her face showed pale through the glassite visor.
"Another few hours of this—an Earth day at the most—" drought Kerry with a sinking sensation, "and we'll be dead in torments. Why, for God's sake, did Sally have to be in this?"
Doggedly he searched among the abandoned equipment.
"It's no use, Kerry." Sally's voice was thick, unlike its usual bell-like quality. "We've searched thoroughly. There isn't a pellet around."
Kerry found what he was looking for. A thin-edged cutting blaster. With slow, painful movements he turned on the power, etched in the hard metallic surface of the planet the symbols and indicia of title—that he, Kerry Dale, citizen of Earth, laid claim to the entire Comet X as his personal possession.
Ile straightened up to meet their joint stupefied gaze. He managed a grin, but his tongue was so swollen be could barely understand what he himself was saying. "At least," he mumbled, "our legal heirs will have the avails."
Jem said thickly, uncertainly. "Nary a chance. The Commission'll take all. Remember you won't be there to fight 'em."
But Sally's eyes glowed. She managed to say: "Kerry, I—I love your spirit. I—love you!"
Then she swayed and would have fallen had Kerry not caught at her, and held her limp body.
They all sat down; they found it difficult to stand any more. Seated, they stared at one another. The thirst began to burn and rage. The strange little planet from another universe was taking its revenge on these rash intruders. The boiling lake, the curving metal surface, the blanketing glow overhead, mocked them and began to swim and dazzle in their disordered vision.
The end was not far off!
CHAPTER 14
CLEM BORDEN, with Simeon Kenton to spur him on, drove his racing
Deimos
in furious twists and turns all over space the hell and gone to Ganymede. Every time he paused and protested: "It's no go, Mr. Kenton. There's not a sign of them anywhere!" old Simeon exploded afresh. "Dad blast it, Clem," he yelled. "Keep going till I tell you to stop; and then keep going some more!"
But there came a time when even Simeon, reeling with fatigue, and spelling Borden at the controls, was compelled to confess that they couldn't search much farther. That was when the fuel gave signs of running out.
"Okay, Clem," he said finally. "Turn 'er in to Ganymede."
"And give it up?" asked the racer hopefully.
"No, dingburn ye! We're taking on fuel, an' going on to the comet."
Borden stared as if he hadn't heard right. "What!" he exclaimed. "That's out beyond Jupiter. No one's ever been there yet."
"Then we'll be the first. Besides," old Simeon added bitterly: "That rubble-dyed impscallion Dale is goin' there—and my daughter."
"I won't go," declared Borden firmly.
"Ha!" shouted Kenton. "But you blamed well will. Look 't your contract. You go wherever I want ye to go. And if you don't, I'll sue you for your shirt. It's all in the contract—forfeiture, quintuple liquidated damages and—and—everything. My Legal Department does things right, I'll have you know."
He didn't see fit to add that it was this same "impscallion" Kerry Dale who had thoughtfully inserted those clauses into the standard contract of hire during his short sojourn in the Legal Department of Kenton Space Enterprises, Unlimited.
Borden gave it up. They landed in Ganymede, where the racer morosely superintended the refilling of the tanks. Old Simeon hastened in the meantime toward the local office of the Space Patrol, located on the edge of the landing field.
As he rushed toward the office, his thin white hair flapping with the speed of his passage, hastily gathered reporters rushed after him.
"Mr. Kenton!" they implored. "Have you found out anything?"
"Can you give us a story?"
"No use trying the Patrol. They haven't a thing."
"Shut up, boys!" he snapped back at them as they almost clung to his coattails. "There ain’t no story and there isn't going to be one."
"Oh, no?" cried one of the newshounds with sudden jubilation. "Look who's coming out of the Communications Building! Jericho Foote himself, as large as life, if not as natural."
It
was
Foote, looking as pleased as his vulpine features would permit him to look. He had just received a code message from Pyotra through a most complicated and circuitous relay. From the pirate ship to their hideout in the Asteroid Belt, to an automatic sending station hidden inside a hollowed-out bit of flotsam in space, to Ganymede. It took several days for the message to pass through the circuit, but it effectually guarded against any tracing of it to its original source. Pyotra merely reported that he had landed at his destination, and that the prospects of doing good business were terrific. By that Foote knew that the outlaws had discovered something immensely valuable. No wonder he was pleased!
But his pleasure vanished when he saw old Simeon Kenton come striding purposefully across the field toward him, followed by a rout of reporters who seemed literally to be licking their chops in anticipation.
Foote's hand went instinctively to the scar on his face—the memento of his last meeting with that old maniac, Simeon Kenton. And now, as he knew only too well, he had given Kenton even more provocation than at that time.
His beady eyes darted frantically around for escape, for help. But the field was bare, except for the oncoming Kenton and the newshounds. And, he remembered bitterly, they hadn't interfered the other time until he was half dead. Why wasn't there an officer of the law around? What the hell did he pay taxes for—when he couldn't help himself—if he got no protection?
Then his questing gaze caught sight of the Space Patrol station. Ah! With a long sigh of relief he turned and made for it with that peculiar gait of a man who doesn't wish to appear as though he were running away, but actually is. Even Kenton, crazy as he was, wouldn't dare attack him in the presence of the Patrol.
"Good day, sir," he commenced hurriedly to the uniformed Commander at the desk, when old Simeon came barging in almost at his heels. The next instant the place was crowded with eager reporters.
Old Kenton made straight for Foote, his fist raised to strike. "You rubble-dyed, blast-doodled, slime-guttered scoundrel!" he yelled. "I'll teach ye to wrap your filthy tongue around the name o' my daughter!"
Foote shrank in terror against the farther wall. "Stop him, some one!" he screamed. "The man is mad!"
The Commander, who had come startled to his feet at this sudden invasion of his peaceful precincts, signaled to a Space Patrolman at another desk. The Patrolman jumped up, interposed his brawny form between attacker and his projected victim.
"Now, now, Mr. Kenton," he said soothingly. "You know you can't do that."
Foote took courage. His dark face twisted eagerly. "You all saw that—that maniac assault me. I want him arrested. I'm pressing charges."
Dancing with rage, old Simeon tried to dart around the intervening officer. "I ain’t had a chance to bash you yet. Lemme at him, so he'll have a real good case.
But at every rush, the Patrolman was deftly there in front of him, warding him off. Then the Commander came out to take a hand. "I'm surprised at your actions, Mr. Kenton. A man of your standing—"
"I want him arrested," persisted Foote shrilly. "He almost killed me on Planets."
"I'm sorry I didn't!" Simeon shouted.
"You hear that? I demand he be placed in jail."
The Commander looked uneasy. Secretly he sympathized with Kenton. The provocation had been ample. And Kenton was also one of the most powerful men in the system. But the law was the law. There had been at least an attempted assault, and in the presence of witnesses.
With a sigh he asked: "You insist, Mr. Foote?"
"Of course I insist," cried that worthy.
With an even greater sigh, the Commander motioned to the Patrolman. "All right; take Mr. Kenton inside. And I set temporary bail at five hundred Earth dollars."
"Why, that's a ridiculous sum!" screamed Foote. "You might just as well let him go free now."
The Commander turned on him. "Sir," he said sternly, "You've made a legal request for an arrest, and I've legally arrested the accused. But temporary bail is wholly in my discretion. Five hundred dollars."
Kenton grinned, took out a wad of bills. He peeled off the top one. "Here it is!" he said. "I'll make it ten thousand if you'll let me take just one swing at that scum."
"You hear him?" shrilled Foote.
The Commander looked pained, started to speak, when the buzzer sounded. "Hmm! We'll settle this in a moment. Excuse me.
He went to his desk, switched on his screen. It was a confidential screen. No one but he could see who was on it; and neither voice traveled beyond circumscribed limits. All that the others could observe was the expression on the Commander's countenance as he listened and replied into the screen.
A silence fell on the crowded room. The disappointed reporters, who had hoped that Old Fireball would take at least one good poke at Foote, perked up. The Commander's face was at first startled, then intent. He spoke rapidly at intervals, then listened again with the deepest attention. The minutes passed. The atmosphere grew oppressive. Obviously a message of the greatest importance was coming through. The newshawks whispered to one another, poised for a deluge of questions as soon as the conversation had ended. This was their lucky day. First, the incident between Old Fireball and Foote; and now—this still unknown message.
At long last the Commander was finished. He switched off his set, came from behind his desk. His face was strangely set. The reporters crowded around. "Tell us what just came through," they implored. "Come on, be a good fellow."
He disregarded their clamor. He stared peculiarly at old Simeon. He cleared his throat; and the newsmen hushed.
"That message," he said gently, "was from one of our Patrol ships. They got a call from the
Flash."
“The
Flash!"
It seemed as if every throat in the room—with the exception of Foote's—echoed the name. The reporters grabbed for their tablets, began to scribble furiously.
Kenton took a step forward. "My daughter!" he said hoarsely. "Is she all right?"
The Commander shifted his gaze; cleared his throat again. "The message," he said, "came from the radio operator of the
Flash.
Miss Kenton and . . . er . . . Mr. Dale are on Comet X.
'There was a sensation. Pencils raced. Wow! What a story! Elopers honeymooning on mysterious Comet X!
Foote's features twisted. There was alarm in his eyes. He opened his mouth; clamped it shut with a strangulating effort.
Old Simeon gulped, flushed. For the first time in his life he was at a loss. "Th—then where's the
Flash?"
he stammered.
"Somewhere between Comet X and Jupiter. The Patrol ship lost contact after Sparks told his story. It seems . . . uh . . . that the radio operator deliberately broke off. A legal offense, I might say; one which might lead to the revocation of his license."
"The ripfaddled blazes with his license!" yelled Simeon. "What story did he tell?"
"A very strange one." The Commander was definitely not looking at anyone in the crowded room. "The
Flash
landed on the comet, in spite of the Commission's prohibition—another serious penal offense, I might add. But they . . . all . . . found another ship ahead of them. A band of outlaws we've been hunting high and low through space these past few years. Miss Kenton, Mr. Dale and three members of their crew landed some distance away to investigate. While they were gone, the outlaws attacked the
Flash.
To avoid destruction, Sparks took off."
"And left the others behind?" cried Simeon incredulously. Then a dreadful thought came to him. "Then—then—," he choked, "the pirates have my daughter!"
No one, in the tension of the room, heard Foote's quick sigh of relief, or saw the twisted grin that spread over his countenance.
"As far as Sparks knew," admitted the Commander. He paused a moment; then continued. "But that isn't the end of the story. The Patrol ship, when Sparks broke off abruptly, started for Comet X. On the way they ran into a suspicious craft hurtling in from outer space. They ordered it to stop for inspection. The ship swerved and fired. The Patrol replied and smashed its starboard jet. When they boarded it, they found the outlaws; or rather, what was left of them."
Foote began to slide stealthily along the wall toward the outer entrance. The Commander made a surreptitious signal. The Patrolman walked nonchalantly over to the door, leaned solidly against it, blocking all egress.
"But my daughter!" exclaimed Simeon with feverish impatience.
"That's the most curious part of the whole story. The outlaws we caught were almost inarticulate with fright. They hadn't seen her, or Dale. They admitted attacking the
Flash;
but swear there was no one besides themselves on the comet. Except—" The Commander paused, looked puzzled. "They kept babbling of some terrific experience; of a world beyond time, of the ghosts of a people dead for millions of years. They sounded insane; but there was no question they had seen something—or thought they saw something. They left their leader and some of their fellows behind, and took off in wild haste."