Alan E. Nourse (8 page)

Tuck
stared at
Torm
, hardly believing his ears. This was
seditious talk; this was treason—yet his father sat calmly, without even
lifting a finger to stop the man. Finally, when
Torm
had finished, the Colonel said, "Let's get to the point, Mr.
Torm
. Where does
Cortell
come
into this?"

Torm
shrugged. "The people of the colony
have taken all they're going to take. They've had enough for decades, but they
never had anyone smart enough to lead them, or think for them. But
Cortell
is a clever man—far more clever than I am, Colonel.
He knows how to use propaganda and back-street whispers. He's an incendiary,
third generation in this colony, and he hates Earth and Earthmen. There are
many people here who have been listening to his talk, more and more, and he's
set about deliberately to undermine my power as leader. My power is traditional
here, and it's elective. And
Cortell
pretends to
believe that by open revolt the colony can win against Earth, and dictate its
own terms—"

The Colonel jerked back in his chair, staring.
"Open revolt—you mean armed warfare against Earth?"

"Precisely."

"Why, that's
ridiculous! The Earth could—"

"The
Earth could bring its bombing rockets and wipe out the colony in an hour,"
said
Torm
quietly. "But it would be too late,
because
Cortell
could do his work much more quickly
than Earth could move. Because the first step in open revolt, as
Cortell
sees it, would be to break open the mining tunnels,
flood the mines with methane, and then set a match to it—" The colony
leader looked up slowly. "Methane and oxygen explode," he said
softly. "They explode with such violence that no one would ever again be
able to operate these mines."

Colonel Benedict chewed his lip. Then he
looked up at
Torm
. "And where do you
stand?"

Torm
shrugged. "I'm tired, Colonel. I've
been fighting him for five years—ever since he started his move for power.
He's been working up hatred for Earth, whipping the colonists to the edge of
revolt, undermining my power every way he can. He thinks the colony could win
such a revolt. I know they can't." He looked straight at the Colonel, and
his face was white. "There is only one way to reinstate this colony in
Earth society as a unit with full rights and privileges—only one way short of
violence. And that way is to work together, my people and your people, in
mutual trust. But to me, you're an Earthman, and I don't believe a word you
say, not one. And I won't, until you give me some reason to. I've been kicked
by Earthmen once too often. I'm not going to be kicked again."

Colonel
Benedict took a deep breath. "Well, we can discuss this at length later.
It looks to me as if you'd better turn
Cortell
over
before we do anything."

"
Cortell
will be accused and tried in the Titan colony, by a
jury of Titan colonists. Not on the Earth ship, and not back on Earth—"
The colony leader's voice was cut off by a commotion on the stairs. There was a
scuffle of feet, and two burly miners appeared, half-dragging a third man
between them. They marched the man across the floor to the desk, then released
him, and stood nearby, grimly. "He didn't want to come, Anson," one
of the men said sourly. "Didn't seem to think he wanted to see you."

The
captive glared at them, then turned his sharp little eyes to Anson
Torm
. He was a man of medium height, thin and wiry, and he
stood like a cornered wildcat, his brown hair disheveled, thin lips drawn back
over sharp yellow teeth. When he spoke, his voice was nasal, and hissed through
his teeth, as though he were out of breath. "You'll be sorry for this,
Torm
—you have no warrant to drag me around like this—"

Torm
sat back in the chair and blinked up at the
man. "There was a land mine in Carter's gorge," he said, his rich
bass voice almost conversational. "It wasn't there when the half-track
went out to the ship. It
was
there
when it came back."

A
nasty grin spread over John
CorteU's
face. "A
pity it didn't get you and these Earth dogs you call your friends—"

Torm
rose slowly from the desk, his eyes blazing,
and slapped
Cortell
sharply across the mouth.
"It did get my son," he grated. "And these Earth dogs are no
more friends of mine than yours. But if they're harmed, the whole colony will
suffer—"

Cortell
rubbed his mouth, glaring at
Torm
. "What do you want with me?"

"You and your men laid
the mine."

"Really?
You have proof of that, of course?"

"Where
were you when the half-track left for the ship this afternoon?"

"I was in
Smogi's
having a drink and waiting for my shift to come due." The grin returned to
CorteU's
face.
"Any more
questions?
Or are you ready to go back to selling out the colony to
these toads?"

Slowly
Torm
sat back in his chair. His whole body was
shaking almost uncontrollably. He found a small printed form in one of the desk
drawers, laid it on the table, and started to write. "You're under arrest,
John," he said softly.
"For attempted murder and
treason against the colony.
You'll be held for
trial,
and exportation to Earth if you're convicted." He nodded to the guards.
"Take him to his quarters, and post a double guard. There'll be a hearing
in public tomorrow. And
no
visitors—"

John
Cortell's
face went white with rage, and he flew at
Torm
, slamming his fist down on the desk top. "You
don't have proof," he screamed. "You can't prove a thing against me,
and when you get through,
see
how
long you last as leader of this colony!
Just
wait!"
Cor
-tell turned and stalked for the door, with
the guards on his heels.

Torm
turned to the Colonel, still vibrating with
anger. "And as for you, Colonel, I think you'd better start facing facts
for a change, you and your Earth people. I'm fighting a battle here to keep a
real
fire from starting in this colony, but I'm losing it. I can't fight it
by myself much longer."

Colonel Benedict's eyes were cold. "I
have only one job here—to make certain that the supply of ruthenium for Earth
is not jeopardized. I'm afraid I'm not much interested in your petty internal
struggles for power. They don't interest me except where they affect the supply
from the mines."

"Then you won't
co-operate with me?"

"Before I can do anything, I need to see
the whole picture here in the colony," the Colonel snapped. "So far,
an attack has been made on my life and that of my son, and I'm afraid that I
can't trust you, either, Mr.
Torm
. Not with the
record you have behind you on this colony. I'm afraid the problems here will
have

to
be settled on Earth terms, regardless of how
the colony feels." He turned to Tuck, and took a deep breath. "Right
now, I think we'd better see to getting settled in quarters."

Torm
stared at them for a long moment, and for
the briefest second Tuck thought he saw a light of weary desperation in the big
man's eyes. Then finally he stood up, hardly looking at the Colonel and Tuck,
and silently led them toward the stairs.

_{Chapter
7
Revolt!}

uck
awoke
with
a jerk in the semidarkness of the little room. He sat up sharply, the whisper
of a very unpleasant dream still drifting in his mind. For a moment of panic he
wondered where he was; then he saw the crude gray concrete wall curved in over
the bed at a sharp angle, and the brightly painted canvas ceiling of the
Torms
' cabin. He stood up on the cold, uneven floor, and
felt every joint in his body scream in protest. He whacked the rough sleeping
pallet with his fist,
then
wrung his hand until the
pain went away. This was a bed? A horizontal board covered by a lumpy
plastic-covered mattress which couldn't have been an inch thick anywhere! Tuck
groaned, and reached for his clothes, glancing over at his father's sleeping
place. It was empty; the Colonel must have slept even worse than he had! And
yet, there was an edge of worry that nibbled at Tuck's mind, and he started
rapidly to dress.

Details
of the previous evening began to return. There was the conference with Anson
Torm
the night before—and there was the prisoner. Tuck's
gloom deep-

ened
. There was a man to watch out for! His
mind's eye held a sharp picture of the twisted, bitter face of John
Cortell
as he had strode away with a guard on either side.
Both the Colonel and
Torm
had been angry at the end
of that meeting, so angry that they barely had spoken on the way from the
meeting room. Tuck recalled his own feeling of futility and helplessness as he
had followed the two men down the rough road to the small,
hutlike
cabin that
Torm
called his home. It was
wrong—everything was wrong. From the first meeting with
Torm
,
something had been awry, some aura of deadly suspicion in the air, yet think as
he would, Tuck could not pinpoint it.
Torm
had shown
them their room, and then had left them to their own devices while he went to
meet his wife at the infirmary, and to see David.

"But
Dad, you didn't even
listen
to him," Tuck had
protested as he and his father started unpacking their bags. "I know that
we have to be careful, but he was telling the truth, Dad—"

The
Colonel sat down, head in his hand. "I wish I could believe that, but I
just can't."

"But can't you meet
him halfway?"

"There's
too much at stake to meet them halfway, son. You heard what
Torm
said tonight."

Tuck
nodded eagerly. "Yes, I did—and if it's true, it makes things add up. The
rumors, the ambush in the gorge—"

"How about the bomb in the letter?
How about the smuggled supplies? No, there
are too many things that
don
't
add
up."

Tuck sobered. "It's just wrong, somehow.
There's something wrong, something we don't know."

"I
know. But just suppose the colony
is
planning
a revolt, open warfare, real trouble. And then, before they're fully prepared,
they get word that we are coming out to investigate. They have agents back on
Earth, agents who have been arranging the smuggled shipments for years.
Suppose they made a desperate attempt on my life, before I even left
Earth—"

"Well, somebody did.
But it didn't work."

The
Colonel's face hardened. "It
would
have
worked. It was a chance in a million that you happened to be home and detect the
letter. But you were, so we arrive here. And what happens?
Torm
appears at the ship, and spends two hours stalling me with denials and
accusations. Suppose they need time—maybe just a day or so more to prepare
themselves
completely for a revolt. Suppose it's essential
to keep us calmed down, out of their hair. What do they do? They carefully
stage an ambush, to throw suspicion away from
Torm
onto a scapegoat. So then, according to the little scenario they've prepared,
I'm supposed to confide in
Torm
, trust him
implicitly, tell him everything he wants to know, and they throw the scapegoat
in jail so it looks like the trouble is under control, and everything is just
rosy—until the rest of the colony has time to finish preparations. And then,
boom!
Just like that."
The Colonel looked up at
his son, a twinkle in his eyes. "They're clever, Tuck. They're got the
scenario all planned out just perfectly. Only your old man isn't going along
with the scenario quite as it was planned—"

"You—you really think this has just been
an elaborate cover-up?"

The Colonel shrugged. "I don't know.
We're dealing with desperate men."

"You
think Anson
Torm
could be a party to a scheme of that
sort?" Tuck stared at his father.

The
Colonel stood up, slowly. "You like the man, don't you?"

Tuck's
eyes dropped. "I know. I shouldn't, I suppose. It—it doesn't seem right.
But I can't help it."

"Well,
I'll tell you a little secret, son." The Colonel's eyes were sad. "I
like him, too. And that's what's going to be toughest of all. Because I think
he's lying in his teeth, and I just don't dare take a chance that he
isn't."

They
had finished unpacking then, and when the
Torms
returned there was little conversation. Tuck had not realized how extremely
hungry he
was,
and he watched Mrs.
Torm
silently from the corner as she prepared the simple meal, and set it down on
the table for them. She was a small, quiet woman, looking
far
older than her years, her face creased with anxiety, and she watched the men
with sad, weary eyes, as they ate in silence. Twice she tried unsuccessfully to
start pleasant conversation, only to see it dwindle. Finally she said, "I
know that there was trouble on the way here, Colonel, and I'm sorry. But I
will not have fighting and bitterness carried into my house. There's enough of
that in the streets and mines. I want love and friendship in my house."
She smiled suddenly, looking years younger. "We have visitors from Earth
so seldom. Perhaps you could tell us how things are—back on Earth."

It had been easier, after that. Tuck had
joined his father in an account of the new things that had happened back home.
The meal was plain, but prepared by an expert hand, and they found the
atmosphere in the house at the end of the meal quite different than before the
meal. Finally the Colonel brought out his pipe and filled it, then offered the
pouch to Anson. The old man's eyes
lighted,
and he
went to a cabinet against the wall, dug deep on a shelf, and came out with an
old, old pipe, cracked and blackened with age. "My father's," he
said, as he filled it. "Tobacco doesn't come to us very often—there's
little room for it on the cargo ships."

The
Colonel turned to Mrs.
Torm
.
"And
David?
How is the boy?"

"He
was resting when we saw him. The doctor said there weren't any broken bones or
concussion. It just shook him up, but he'll have to stay there a few days, just
to make sure—"

Tuck
sighed, almost audibly, making a mental note to inquire the way to the
infirmary first thing next morning. They had talked on about Earth until very
late; then Tuck and his father had retired to their cubicle, set back from the
main room of the hut and closed off with a coarse blanket.

"Sorry
we can't give you more privacy, but walls are expensive to build,"
Torm
had said apologetically. "Someday we'll have real
houses here, I hope. For the time being, I guess you'll be tired enough to
sleep."

And now, as Tuck put on his shoes, he wished
he had been. Instead of sleeping, he had tossed and turned, his mind spinning
over the previous day's events. His father and
Torm
hadn't spoken of the affairs of the colony all evening, and had seemed almost
to be warming toward each other. Yet Tuck couldn't erase his father's words
from his mind.
They
are clever men, desperate men, and this may just be part
of
their plan.
For hours he had turned the situation over in
his mind, and then had sunk into an uneasy sleep, no closer to the answer than
before—

Once
dressed, he pushed back the blanket and strode into the main room. The pale
morning light was streaming in the open door, and Mrs.
Torm
was busy in the far end of the room that served as a kitchen. She smiled and
nodded him to a table. "You're deserted. Your father and Anson left just
after daybreak. They're going to tour the mines and check the production
schedules today—"

"But they're up so
early!"

"You'll
have to get used to the short nights—you slept eight hours, and our nights are
only six hours long." She set Tuck's breakfast plate down before him.
"You'll find it getting dark long before you expect it, too, until you get
accustomed to it. The days are shorter." She poured out the milk
concentrate and dried, pressed bacon in front of him. The food had
a
strange look; Tuck tasted it hesitantly, then tore into it like a hungry
bear. It seemed like the most delicious breakfast he had ever eaten.

Mrs.
Torm
left before he had finished, brushing her hair
back from her tired face. She explained that she was responsible for the
trading post store three days out of six. Tuck finished breakfast slowly,
taking in every detail of the rude cabin that he had missed in his weariness
the night before. Once again he was struck by the simplicity, the absence of
any of the little decorations and refinements that were to be found in every
college dormitory room, or every apartment at home. At the far end of the room
hung the only picture in the whole place—a gray, faded photograph of a large,
strong-faced man, bearing a striking resemblance to Anson
Torm
,
yet even older, with a flowing beard and a fine wide forehead. Probably David's
grandfather, he thought—also a leader of the mining colony years before.
And how about David's
greatgrandfather
?
Also a leader?
Probably.
There seemed to be some sort of family succession. That would mean that
sometime David might be in line for leadership here. Tuck stared at the picture
for a long time. What about the great-great-grandfather?
A
convict?
A murderer?
One of the original
miners, sent out here to the prison colony, back while Earth was still powered
exclusively by atomics?
Possibly.
There was no way to
tell, short of asking, and it struck Tuck that that was hardly the proper sort
of question to ask.

"Isn't
this a little late to be rolling out of the sack?" The voice boomed from
the doorway, and Tuck dropped his fork with a clatter. With a roar of laughter,
David
Torm
was in the room, hands on his hips, grinning
broadly at Tuck. "I always heard you folks on Earth were late
sleepers—"

Tuck
reddened and picked up his fork again, feeling foolish for his sudden start.
"I wouldn't say that. You just run a short day out here." He stared
at the blond-haired youth. David was even huskier than Tuck had remembered, a
powerfully built lad who was never still, always moving. There was
a solidity
about him that Tuck, with his slender, wiry
build, couldn't help but envy. David would be a good friend to have around in a
free-for-all,
and an unpleasant foe indeed. "I
thought you were dying," Tuck said, his eyes twinkling. "Who let you
out?"

David
chuckled, and started preparing some breakfast with an amazing clatter of
pans. "
Leetle
Davey let himself out.
Through the roof.
You'd think I'd broken every bone in my
body—"

"Ah,
well," said
Tuck
. "They'll just come and
drag you back again—"

"They'll need a
half-track to do it!"

There
was a flicker of concern in Tuck's eyes. "All joking aside—are you sure
you feel all right?"

David
grinned. "Now I ask you—what kind of pilot would I be if I couldn't crash
land a little crate like the
Snooper
without
getting hurt? I ask you."

"Well, you were slightly unconscious, no
matter what. You scared your father out of ten years."

David
shrugged his broad shoulders good-naturedly, and sank down to breakfast.
"I've been doing that ever since I learned to walk. Dad's used to it by
now. Anyway, there wasn't anything else to do."

"Then you knew there
was a trap?"

David shrugged. "It looked like a good
bet. I heard that
Cortell
had something up his
sleeve, and it looked to me like a perfect setup for him to wing dad and you
folks at the same time—so I just kept you company on the way back." His
blue eyes caught Tuck's and held them gravely. "You should have let me
talk to dad, back there on the ship. He could have taken a different route
back to the colony."

Tuck
reddened. "I know. I'm sorry—really I am. I thought you were spying or
something—maybe planning to blow us up yourself—"

David
threw back his head and roared. "What, and miss a chance to show off the
Snooper?
Everybody thinks
its
a big joke around here—Davey's
Coffin,
they call it."

"Where did it come
from?"

"Just an old junk lifeboat that was
lying around the colony."