Alan E. Nourse (7 page)

"And
I
suppose
your
people
eat
metal,
Mr.
Torm
? I
suppose
they
eat
tool
steel?
Or
does
the
strange
Titan
atmosphere make your tools and machinery
more prone to breakage?"

The
colony leader gripped the steering bar heavily, not even answering. The
half-track reached the top of the grade, and for a brief moment they could see
the colony, far ahead, a small, grayish, glasslike bubble, sitting down in a
valley between two long lines of jagged peaks. Tuck stared, open-mouthed at the
picture, until the half-track went over the ridge and started bumping and
jogging down the other side, down a sharp ravine of jagged rock.
Torm
picked his way carefully, partly following the path
that had been worn by generations of supply trains crossing the rocks to the
colony, partly moving aside from the path to avoid boulders of black rock which
had fallen onto the path from the vibrations. The whole landscape had a
strange, uncertain appearance; the rocks did not look stable, they did not
appear solid and timeless like the jutting slabs of rock Tuck had seen during
his summer climbing adventures in the Rocky Mountains on Earth. These rocks
looked sharp, precariously balanced; they jutted up stark and barren, leaning
crazily, looking for all the world as if they had been dropped there, quite
suddenly, by some celestial hand, and then stopped in motion before they had a
chance to roll. The half-track struck one of the boulders near the path a
glancing blow, and then
Torm
slammed on the brakes as
the boulder went crashing down the slope before them, bouncing like a huge,
crazy black ball until it struck the bottom, bringing down a shower of pebbles
and debris after it. Without a word
Torm
started the
machine again, lumbering carefully down the slope. About a mile ahead was a
narrow cleft or gorge between two cliffs; the half-track rumbled toward it.

Then,
quite suddenly, the men heard an unearthly screech in their ears, and the
little jet plane zoomed in close over them, turned a flip, and zoomed back,
still closer. The Colonel stared at the plane as it skimmed over, not twenty
feet above them, and then turned to
Torm
in alarm. "What
was that?"

Torm
frowned, staring through the
plexiglass
panel at the
little plane as it made a graceful arc in the sky, and raced down in front of
them, zigzagging across their path. "That's odd," he said.
"That's my son's ship. An old lifeboat he begged off one of the supply
ships and rebuilt for an exploring scooter. But
I
don't know what he's trying to do—"

The
ship was indeed behaving most oddly. It swooped down swiftly, coming so close
that the men in the half-track gripped their supports, half-expecting it to
crash into their top; then it whizzed over and sped for a hundred yards or so
down along the valley floor before them, zigzagging across their path as
"before. The huge cleft between the cliffs ahead was closer now, and the
half-track lumbered along the path, with the little jet doing its strange
maneuverings ahead of them as they went.

"What
is he trying to do—signal us?" The Colonel was half out of his seat as the
plane zoomed overhead again.

Torm
shook his head. "I—I don't think so.
He'd drop a flare if he wanted us to stop—"

"Well, he's going to
kill us—
look
at that!"

The
plane almost struck the valley floor that time.
Torm's
breath hissed between his teeth, and his foot slammed down on the brake as the
little jet plunged down to what appeared almost certain disaster; then, quite
suddenly, it lifted itself again, and zipped up high through the gorge ahead.
Torm
muttered something under his breath, his face dark.

"He's crazy!" the
Colonel breathed.

"He's
up to something."
Torm
shook his head again as the half-track skidded down a bank toward
the gorge.
"He's a skillful flier, but he knows better than
that."

"But what—" The plane had circled
around and made another run through the cleft, somewhat lower, and on less of
an angle than the first.

Tuck
had been staring at the plane silently for several minutes. "Looks to me
like he's scouting the path for us!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Didn't
you see that? He's cutting in as low as he dares, and zigzagging along the
floor—"

"But that's
ridiculous. There's nothing—"

The
Colonel leaned forward sharply. "Tuck's right," he said. "He
is
scouting—"

The
little jet had just made another run through the cleft, not a hundred yards
ahead of them, and started down into the valley below. Then, almost as an afterthought,
David brought the ship up high, and raced over behind the half-track. With a
whine the ship skimmed along the ravine, quite low, and then zoomed down until
it almost touched the ground; suddenly it swung directly into the half-track's
path, and buzzed through the gorge ahead of them, not four feet off the ground—

And
on the tail of the jet there was a blinding, purple flash, and a huge roar, and
the entire gorge went up in a fury of purple fire and gray-white smoke. In
horrible slow-motion, the cliffs on either side of the gorge crumbled from the
concussion, heaping tons of rock down into the pathway, in the exact spot where
the half-track would have been just a few minutes later. The concussion wave
caught the jet as it zipped through, and the little plane went into a series of
sickening rolls, then panned out and slid into a crash landing somewhere
behind the pillar of fire and smoke that was rising from the gorge—

Torm
slammed on his brakes, and shoved the halftrack
into reverse, his face white as putty. Frantically he backed the machine away
from the pillar of fury in the gorge and started it up a flanking path, up a
sharp declivity that would take it around the gorge to the right. Tuck held on
with both hands as the halftrack clambered up the unbroken path, engines roaring,
bouncing all its occupants about the inside like dolls in a box, but Anson
Torm
wrestled the steering bar, gunning the machine as fast
as he could make it go. At the top of the rock he slowed, spotted the scooter
lying with a crumpled wing and a split-open jet, on the floor of the gorge
below the place of the explosion.
Torm
turned the
half-track in that
direction,
and it roared on down
the hill. All three of them watched the wreck, but there was no sign of life
from the little scooter. It seemed a lifetime as the half-track made its way
down; as they came closer, Tuck felt his stomach muscles tighten. Somehow,
David must have known that an ambush might be planned to destroy the half-track
as it returned from the ship; when he'd not been allowed to see his father, he
had waited, then scouted the pathway for them as they made their way back to
the colony. Tuck suddenly felt sick—David had been telling the truth, there on
the ship! And Tuck had had to pick that time to be stuffy and suspicious. And
he had thought himself very clever the way he had handled the flamboyant
visitor! Quite suddenly and incredibly, as they moved down toward the wreckage
of the jet plane, Tuck felt deeply ashamed. The blond-haired lad had had the courage
to risk his own life to save them from a trap— and now he was down there in the
smashed jet—

They
reached an outcropping above the jet scooter, and
Torm
was out of the half-track in an instant. The Colonel and Tuck followed, staring
at the crumpled wing and smashed-in undercarriage of the little ship. And then,
even as they approached, the cockpit flew open, and David appeared, moving
feebly, dragging
himself
up out of the seat.
Torm
let out a
cry, and helped him down to the ground, checking his helmet for leaks as the
boy muttered incoherently.
Then David's knees buckled under him, and
they eased him down to the ground.

"It's unbelievable,"
Torm
said,
his voice choking.
"He's alive. And no bones
broken—
probably just a
slight concussion." He motioned toward the half-track, and together they
carried the youth, pressure suit and all, into the cab of the machine, made a
place for him on the floor behind the seats where some oilcans had been stored.
They were silent; as they moved the lad, the anger in Anson
Torm's
face grew like a gathering storm. "They did it this time," he
muttered as he took his place behind the controls of the half-track. "They
went a step too far this time. If it hadn't been for David they'd have gotten
all of us—"

The
Colonel stared at
Torm
, wide-eyed, and there was
bewilderment on his face. "I don't get this," he said. "I can
see somebody ambushing
us—
Tuck and me —but
you
were in this half-track too—"

Torm's
eyes were filled with bitter anger. "A
remarkable observation," he said sourly. "Now maybe you'll believe
me when I tell you I'm on your side. This was well-planned—magnetic fuse on a
land mine, so that anything metallic that came into that gorge would be gone.
Beautiful.
Even David missed it, until he brought the
scooter in at the same level as the halftrack. And it was supposed to kill two
birds with one stone." He turned a bitter grin toward the Colonel and
Tuck. "Or maybe I should say three birds—"

"And you know who
planted the trap?"

Torm
looked up
again,
and his eyes were not pleasant. "Yes, I know who did it. And I know what
to do about it. I think it's time for a showdown with John
Cortell
."

_{Chapter
6
The
Prisoner}

tE
colony
lay
tight and compact in the long, shallow valley between the two parallel lines
of black, jagged peaks. A queer, bulbous, glistening bubble of heavy
plexiglass
surrounded the entire outpost like an alien
cocoon. Tuck stared at the huge bubble wonderingly as the half-track rumbled
the last hundred yards down the grade toward the entrance lock. "You mean
that that plastic stuff covers the entire colony?"

Anson
Torm
nodded grimly. "Every crack and leak is
sealed off with the stuff, or with the plastic gum we use to seal off and caulk
leaks. Remember, we're human beings—we're not equipped to live and breathe in a
methane atmosphere at 250 degrees below zero." He swung the half-track
around a heap of rocks, and rumbled up to the opening of the lock. Tuck peered
with excitement through the glimmering sheathing. The pale sun was almost below
the horizon, and the colony bubble caught the dim, ghostly light of Saturn, now
almost directly overhead. Inside the dome Tuck could see the pale electric
lights beginning to glow,

brightening
the drab interior as much as anything could
brighten the dreary place. The half-track moved into the lock, and
Torm
began loosening his pressure-suit helmet almost at
once, the anger still black on his tired face. Suddenly the inner lock-hatch
opened with a loud ping, and the half-track moved forward until the door could
close behind it.
Torm
threw open the top, and sprang
out onto the ground.

Tuck
followed
Torm
out, holding up a hand to help his
father, his eyes taking in the street in all its details. It was a strange
street; the lock opened into a large, clear area, faced by a long, low building
of rock and wood that looked like
a troops
' barracks.
The clearing stretched out to the left and right in a rough unpaved road that
curved around, following the course of the curved dome. And lining the road on
both sides were strange-looking buildings, mostly thrown together of black
stones and coarse mortar—buildings doubly strange because they seemed to have
no roofs. The rock walls rose eight or ten feet in the air to end in jagged
wall-like tops; on a few Tuck could see brightly colored woven blankets and
painted canvas thrown across the tops, but many had nothing of the sort, and
through one open door Tuck could see the bright dome shining through from
above.

Near
the lock, one of the buildings had a large
porchlike
arrangement, and signs were posted on the black walls—obviously a trading post
or store. Several men and women were gathered on the porch, staring at Tuck and
his father with dark, suspicious eyes, and a group of children were chattering
and pointing. Then a small, deeply tanned man broke from the group and ran
across the clearing toward them. He ignored the Earthmen as if they weren't
there, and turned to Anson
Torm
excitedly. "What
happened, Anson? We heard a blast—"

Torm
nodded to the man, and gestured toward Tuck
and his father.
"The Earth delegation, Ned.
Colonel Robert Benedict and his son, Tucker. This is Ned Miller."

The
little colonist looked up at the Colonel and Tuck with sharp brown eyes, as if
he were trying to penetrate a veil; then he sniffed in disgust and turned back
to
Torm
. "Now I think that's real nice," he
said sourly. "But what—" His eye caught sight of the boy in the back
of the half-track.
"Anson!
That's David— what
happened, man?"

They
helped David out of the cab onto the ground, where he lay, still limp. The man
called Ned Miller galvanized into frantic action, waving a couple of the men
over, shouting for a stretcher. "We heard the blast half an hour
ago," he said excitedly. "We expected David to be back with some
news, but he didn't come. Is he hurt
bad
?"

"Not
bad. Concussion, or maybe just shaken up a little." He turned to one of
the men. "Send over word to Doc Taber, and ask him to come running, will
you?"

"But what
happened?" Ned Miller asked again.

Torm's
face darkened as he stood up.
"Ambush.
One of the mining charges,
with a magnetic fuse.
David must have gotten wind of it, somehow. He
came over in the
Snooper,
and scouted it out for us—
over in Carter's gorge. Didn't touch us, but the concussion wave got the
Snooper
and David."

Ned
Miller scowled, rubbing his grizzled chin. "
Cortell
,"
he said.

"Who
else?
But there's no proof."

"Proof,
bah!" Miller exploded, his brown eyes snapping. "
Cortell
couldn't wait for you to get out of here this morning. He and about ten men had
a meeting, a quarter of an hour after you left, and half a dozen of his boys
were out of the mines this afternoon."

Torm
nodded angrily. "Send Martz and
Darly
to get
Cortell
down to the
convention room, and pronto.
Legal order.
We'll be
down there in a few minutes, and we want him there. And if he doesn't want to
come, break his legs and then bring him."

Miller's
eyes were worried. "There'll be trouble, Anson. Unless you and the Colonel
got farther than I think you did—"

"There'll
be trouble, all right. But there isn't much we can do about it now. This thing
has got to stop." He turned to find the short, balding figure of the
colony's doctor kneeling beside David.

"What about it,
Doc?"

The
doctor examined the boy's head carefully. "Better get X-rays. I wouldn't
worry, but he'll be down at the infirmary for a couple of days. Check with me
later."

Anson
nodded, and turned to Tuck and the Colonel. Together, they started across the
clearing into the long, low building that faced them.

It was a barracks, on either side of the
large common room—the quarters of the former military contingent, now used as
a storehouse.
But in the rear were stone steps, leading down
in a long spiral.
Anson
Torm
snapped on
lights, his face still tense with anger, and they started down. A number of the
colonists were in the common room reading, and a few waved at Anson as they
passed through—but there were no smiles when they saw
Torm's
company. At the bottom of the stairs they found themselves in a huge
underground excavation, filled with rude seats, with a desk and chair at the
front, and a massive wall of files. Anson
Torm
nodded
Tuck and the Colonel into seats, then seated himself at the table, and waited,
drumming his hand on the table top in impatient anger. The hall was dark, and
very silent. There was room here to seat every one of the colonists, man,
woman, and child, but now the room was empty. Yet, if he listened closely, Tuck
could hear more clearly the strange, rumbling noise he had heard up above,
coming from far underground —a persistent sound that never dropped nor rose,
and almost became a part of the background of the place. Probably pumps, Tuck
reasoned—or maybe mining machinery. Whatever it was, it only added to the gloom
of the place. Tuck shifted uneasily, wishing the stillness were not so complete.

Finally
Colonel Benedict broke the silence. He turned to Anson
Torm
questioningly. "What do you propose to do with this
Cortell
person when he gets here?"

Torm
turned his angry eyes to the Earthman.
"I
don't know," he said slowly.

"You mean you'd let him get away with
something like this?" The Colonel's eyes were wide. "Like what?"

"Like an ambush.
Like
attempted murder."
The Colonel's voice was tense.

Torm
stared at him tiredly. "I may have no
choice. I am the elected leader of this colony—nothing more. I have the
position of judiciary—the power to select juries and the power to make final
judgments in judicial matters of law. And since I've held this position, I've
studied Earth law and colony law for a long, long time." The big man
shrugged his shoulders apologetically. "Unfortunately, in all this time
and study, I've not yet found any justification for condemning a man with no
evidence against him."

"But
everyone here seems to know that it was
Cortell
who
planted the trap—or at least
Cortell's
men—"

"This may very well be
true. But it's not proof."

The
Colonel drummed the table top impatiently. "And yet, from a very selfish
viewpoint, that was a deliberate attempt on
my life—nothing
more nor less. I'm here with a job to do—and I intend to see it done, if I have
to take
Cortell
, and you, and everyone else involved
in the little plot and place them under Earth arrest for high treason."

Torm
looked at the Colonel for a long moment,
studying his face, a look of puzzlement in the colony leader's eyes. "You
forget one thing," he said finally. "It was an attempt on
my
life, too. And it nearly killed my son."

"But why on
your
life?"

Anson
Torm
leaned
forward, his eyes square on the Colonel's face. "How well do you know the
history of this colony?"

"Quite well, I should
say—"

"Security Commission
records, no doubt."

The
Colonel reddened.
"Among other source materials.
What are you getting at?"

"It
was started as a prison, this colony,"
Torm
said. "That was a hundred and fifty years ago. A place where criminals
against Earth society were sent, a deathtrap, a modern-world Devil's Island if
you wish— You've heard of that place, I presume? Not a fair comparison,
really—at least those poor creatures had Earth sky and Earth sea—" The big
man's eyes grew wistful for just a moment. "But back when the colony here
was started, ruthenium wasn't so critical to Earth economy. As time went on,
Earth authorities began to realize that they didn't
dare
leave the mining of their ruthenium up to criminals and cutthroats, so
they recruited workers, made the mines a free colony, and started the mining
system that we have here now—"

"This
is all very interesting," the Colonel said. "But I repeat—what are
you driving at?"

Tuck
watched the colony leader closely. He felt the awkwardness between the two men
quite acutely. And strangely, as he listened, the doubts which had been
creeping into his mind since his first sight of the big man's face on the ship
became stronger. It seemed incredible that this quiet voice, this stern face
with the lines of worry and compassion engraved over the years, could be the
voice and face of an outlaw and a liar. And yet he knew, even thinking it
otherwise was foolhardy. There had been two vicious attacks, there was violence
in the very air of this strange colony, and this big, sandy-haired man was the
leader here. Or at least, he claimed to be—

Torm
held up his hand. "Patience, Colonel.
Think about history for a minute. Earth made Titan a free colony, which was
very fine—except that the people on Earth could never forget that it was
originally a prison colony. Ruthenium became more and more necessary to the
growing luxury on Earth, and this colony became more and more vital—and the
people on Earth grew more and more afraid of us who worked in the mines. They
were afraid of the power we might assume, they were afraid we might someday
grow too strong. So, you see, they took steps to see that we would never grow
too strong. Very gradually, very skillfully, they turned propaganda on Earth
against us —propaganda deliberately planned to degrade us as human beings,
planned to lower our status, planned to make people on Earth more afraid of us,
to make them regard us as slaves, half-animals, rebels—'

Colonel
Benedict stared at the colony leader. "You're expecting me to believe
this?"

"You
should believe it,"
Torm
replied softly.
"Your own Earth Security Commission has engineered it for years—"

"The
Commission is responsible for the security of people on Earth—nothing more.
They hardly have the time to set themselves up as persecutors. There's been
trouble in this colony for years—you know that as well as
I.
Time after time Earth delegations have come out here, trying to reach a
ground for peace and co-operation. Time after time they've been met with
treachery and hatred."

"That
is not true, Colonel. You have been afraid of us, and naturally we have grown
to fear you, too. After all, Earth has the power to starve us, to smother us,
to slaughter us, if they wish." The colony leader stood
up,
walked back and forth in the still room. "We know that. We're helpless out
here, alone, utterly dependent on Earth's regular supplies. But we have always
known how much Earth needs ruthenium. Of course they have never done us
physical harm—but there are other things that can destroy people, Colonel. Men
must be able to keep their self-respect, and the respect of the people they
live with. And slowly, over the years, we've been down-graded in the eyes of
Earth people. Oh, nothing deliberate or premeditated—but we've lost our status
as citizens in the Solar System. Promises have been broken, supply quotas have
been lowered, higher and higher production has been expected, and every year
our position as citizens falls, and fear builds up, and we go through the
vicious circle again."