The Edmond Hamilton Megapack: 16 Classic Science Fiction Tales (14 page)

Hyrst said, showing the edges of his teeth, “When do I get Vernon?”

“You’ll get him. I promise you.”

“What about Bellaver? He’s still behind us.”

Shearing smiled. “That’s Christina’s job! Let her worry.”

Hyrst nodded. He began to remember the refinery. Christina and the other two went out.

A short while later a number of things happened, violently, and in quick succession. The ship of the Lazarites, pursuing its wild and headlong course through the swarming debris of the Belt, was far ahead of Bellaver’s yacht but still within instrument range. Apparently in desperation it plunged suddenly on a tangential course into a cluster of great jagged rocks all travelling together at a furious rate of speed. The cluster was perhaps two hundred miles across. The Lazarite ship twisted and turned, and then there was a swift bright flowering of flame, and then nothing.

“She’s blown her tubes,” said Bellaver exultantly, on the bridge of his yacht. The instruments had lost contact, chiefly because the cluster was so thick that it was impossible to separate one body from another.

Vernon said, “They’re not blanking my mind any more. It stopped, like that.”

But he was still doubtful.

“Can you locate the ship?” asked Bellaver.

“I’m trying.”

Bellaver caught his arm. “Look there!”

There was a second, larger and more brilliant, flash of flame.

“They’ve hit an asteroid,” he said. “They’re done for.”

“I can’t locate them,” Vernon said. “No ship, no wreckage. It could be a trick. They could be holding a cloak.”

“A trick?” said Bellaver. “I doubt it. Anyway, we’re running low on fuel, and I’m not going to go into that cluster and risk my own neck to find out. If by any chance they do come out again later on, we’ll deal with them.”

But they both watched the cluster until it had whirled on out of sight. And neither eye nor instrument nor Vernon’s probing mind could distinguish any sign of life.

CHAPTER VIII

Titan lay below them in the Saturn-glow, under the fantastic glory of the Rings. A bitter, repellent world of jagged peaks and glimmering plains of poison snow. The tiny life-raft dropped toward it, skittering nervously as it hit the thin atmosphere. Hyrst clung hard to the handholds, trying not to retch. He was not habituated to space anyway, and the skiff had been bad enough. Now, without any hull around him and nothing but a curved shield in front of him, he felt like an ant on a flying leaf.

“I don’t like it either.” Shearing said. “But it gives us a fifty-fifty chance of getting through unnoticed. Radar usually isn’t looking for anything so small.”

“
I
understand all the reasons,” Hyrst said. “It’s my stomach that’s obtuse.”

He could make out the pattern of the refinery now, a million miles of vertigo below him. The Lazarite ship was somewhere up and out behind them, hiding in the Rings. The trick had worked with Bellaver out there in the Belt, and they hoped now that it would work with Bellaver’s observers on Titan. There was no need for any fake explosions this time, to give the impression of destruction. Secrecy was the watch-word, all lights out and jet-blasts muffled to a spark. Later, when Hyrst and Shearing had accomplished their mission, the ship would drop down fast and take them off, with the Titanite, before any patrol craft would have time to arrive.

They hoped.

The buildings of the refinery were dark and cold, drifted out of shape by an accumulation of the thin, evil snow. The spiderweb of roads had faded from the plain, and the landing field was smooth and unmarked. Around its perimeter the six stiff towers of the hoists stood up like lonely sentinels, hooded and cloaked.

Hyrst felt a sudden tightening of his throat, and this was a thing he had not expected. A refinery on Titan was hardly a thing to be sentimental about. But it was bound up so intimately with other things, with hopes for a future that was now far behind him, with plans for Elena and the kids that were now a cruel mockery, with friendly memories of Saul and Landers, now long dead, that he could not look at it unmoved.

“Let’s try again,” said Shearing quietly. “If we could locate the Titanite definitely it might make all the difference. We’ll hardly have time to search all six of the bins.”

Glad of the distraction, Hyrst tried. He linked his mind to Shearing’s and they probed with this double probe, one after the other, the six hoists and the bins beneath them, while the raft fell whistling down the air.

It was the same as all the tries before. The bins had been empty for more than a decade, but the residual radiation was still hot enough to present a luminous haze to the eyes of the mind, fogging everything around it.

“Wait a minute,” Hyrst said. “Let’s use our wits. Look at the way those hoists are placed, in a wide crescent. Now if I was MacDonald, coming in from the mountains with a load of Titanite, and I wanted not to be seen, which one would I pick?”

“Either One or Six,” said Shearing, without hesitation. “They’re the farthest away from the buildings.”

“But Number Six is at the west end of the crescent, and to reach it you would have to go clear across the landing field.” He pointed mentally to Number One. “I’ll bet on that one. Shall we give it another try?”

They did. This time, for a fleeting second, Hyrst thought he had something.

“So did I,” said Shearing. “Sort of down under and
behind
.”

“Yes,” said Hyrst. “
Look
out!” His involuntary cry was caused by the sudden collision of the life-raft with a cloud. The vapor was very thick, and after the cruel clarity of space it made Hyrst feel that he was smothering. Shearing jockeyed the raft’s meagre controls, and in a minute or two they were below the cloud and spiralling down toward the landing field. It was snowing.

“Good,” said Shearing. “We’ll hope it keeps up.”

They landed close to Number One Hoist and floundered rapidly through the shallow drifts, carrying some things. The hatch had been sealed with a plastic spray to prevent corrosion, and it took them several minutes to get it open. Inside the tower it was pitch black, but they did not need lights. Their other senses showed them the worn metal treads of the steps quite clearly. In the upper chamber the indicator panels were dark and dead. Hyrst shivered inside his suit. He had been here so many times before, so long ago.

“Let’s get busy,” Shearing said.

They pulled on the rayproofs they had brought with them from the raft. Without power the lift was useless, but the skeleton cage, stripped of all its tools, was not too heavy for two strong men to swing clear of the shaft top. They made sure it would stay clear, and then sent down a light collapsible ladder. Hyrst slid down first into the smooth, round, totally unlighted hole, that had one segment of it open paralleling the machinery of the hoist.

“Take it carefully,” Shearing said, and slid after him.

Clumsy in vac-suit and rayproof, Hyrst descended the ladder with agonizing slowness. Every impulse cried out for haste, but he knew if he hurried he would wind up at the bottom of the shaft as dead as MacDonald. The banging and knocking of their passage against the metal wall made a somber, hollow booming in that enclosed space, and it seemed to Hyrst that the silent belts and cables of the hoist hummed a little in sympathy. It was probably only the blood humming in his own ears.

“See anything yet?”

“No.”

The vast strange glowing of the bin grew brighter as they approached it. The hoist was still “hot,” and it glowed too, but nothing like the concentration in the bin.

“Even with rayproofs, we can’t stay close to that too long.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to. MacDonald was only human, and the bin was full then. He couldn’t have stayed long either.”

“See anything yet?”

“Nothing but fog. When you hit bottom, better use your light.”

At long last Hyrst felt the bottom of the shaft under his boots. He stood aside from the ladder and switched on his belt lamp. In this case the physical eyes were better than the mental, being insensitive to radiation. Instantly the gears and cams of the feeder assembly sprang into sharp relief on the open side of the shaft. Shearing stumbled down off the ladder and switched on his own light.

“Where was it we thought we saw something?”

“Down under and behind.” Hyrst turned slowly around, questing. The shaft was unbroken except by the repair opening. He climbed through it, with some difficulty, because nobody was supposed to climb through it and the machinery was placed for easy access with extension tools from the lift. The bin itself was now directly opposite them, a big hopper cut deep in the solid rock and serving the feeder by simple gravity. The feeder pretty well filled its own rocky chamber. A place might have been found beside it for something not too big, but the first man who came down on the lift would have seen it whether he was looking for it or not.

Shearing pointed. A dark opening pierced the rock at one side. Hyrst tried to see into it with his mental eyes, but the “fog” was so dense and bright—

He saw it, an unsubstantial ghostly shadow, but there. A square box some twenty feet down the tunnel.

Shearing drew a quick sharp breath “Let’s go.”

They went into the tunnel, crouching, scraping against the narrow sides.

“Look out for booby traps.”

“I don’t see any—yet.”

The box sat in the middle of the tunnel. There was no way to get around it, no way to see over it without lying on its top and wriggling between it and the low roof. Hyrst and Shearing shut their eyes.

“I’m not sure, but I think I see a wire. Damn the fog. Can’t tell where it goes—”

Hyrst took cutters from his belt and slithered cautiously over the box. His heart was hammering very hard and his hand shook so that he had great difficulty getting the cutters and the wire together. The wire was attached to the back of the box, very crudely and hastily attached with a blob of plastic solder. It was not until he had pinched the wire with the sharp metal cutter-teeth that he realized the plastic was non-metallic and the wire bare. And then, of course, it was too late.

There must have been a simple energizer somewhere up ahead, still charging itself from the ample radiation source. The cutters flew out of Hyrst’s hand in a shower of sparks, and in the darkness of the tunnel ahead there was a sudden wild flare of light, and an explosion of dust. A shock wave, not too great, hammered past Hyrst’s helmet. Shearing yelled once, a protest broken short in mid-cry. Then they waited.

The dust settled. The brief tremor of the rock was stilled.

In the roof of the tunnel, where the blast had been, a broken dump-trap hung open, but nothing poured out of it but a handful of black dust.

Hyrst began to laugh. He lay on his belly on top of the box of Titanite and laughed. The tears ran out of his eyes and down his nose and dropped onto the inside of his helmet. Shearing hit him from behind. He hit him until he stopped laughing, and then Hyrst shook his head and said.

“Poor MacDonald.”

“Yeah. Go ahead, you can cut the wire now.”

“Such a lovely booby trap. But he wasn’t figuring on time. They went away from here, Shearing, you see? And when they went they drained off the liquid graphite and took it with them. So there isn’t anything left to flood the tunnel. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Shearing hit him again. “Cut the wire.”

He cut it. They scuffled backward down the tunnel, dragging the box. When they got back into the shaft where there was room to do it they opened up the box.

“Doesn’t look like much, does it, for all the trouble it’s made?”

“No, it doesn’t. But then gold doesn’t look like much, or uranium, or a handful of little dry seeds.” Shearing picked up a chunk of the rough, grayish ore. “You know what that is, Hyrst? That’s the stars.”

It was Hyrst’s turn to prod Shearing into quiet. The starship and the dream that went with it were still only an intellectual interest to him. They shared out the Titanite into two webbing sacks. It made a light load for each, hardly noticeable when clipped to a belt-ring at the back.

Hyrst felt suddenly very nervous. Perhaps it was reaction, perhaps it was the memory of having been trapped in a similar hole on the Valhalla asteroid. Perhaps it was a mental premonition, obscured by the radioactive “fog”. At any rate, he started to climb the ladder with almost suicidal haste, urging Shearing on after him. The shaft seemed to be a mile high. It seemed to lengthen ahead of him as he climbed, so that he was never any nearer the top. He knew it was only imagination, because he passed the level markers, but it was the closest thing to a nightmare he had ever experienced when he was broad awake. Just after they had passed the E Level mark, Shearing spoke.

“A ship has landed.”

Hyrst looked mentally. The fog-effect was not so great now, and he could see quite clearly. It was a small ship, and two men were getting out of it. It had stopped snowing.

“Radar must have picked up the raft after all,” said Shearing. “Or else somebody spotted the jet-flares.” He began to climb faster. “We better get out of this before they come in.”