Grotto of the Dancing Deer : And Other Stories

Tom Clark stared at the sword he held in his hand. It should have been in a museum, for it was a rare specimen. The steel was bright and the hilt was an example of workmanship in which the ancients had excelled.

It had been centuries since a sword had been used in battle. But on this day, in the atmosphere plant which supplied oxygen to the great quartz dome on the twilight belt of the planet Mercury, a naked blade had leaped and flashed, a weapon again. It was no longer a relic doomed to be regarded with curiosity by a race that had forgotten its use.

The blade had belonged to Ben Jacobs, an heirloom which had been handed down, in the name of sentiment, from father to son, for many generations. Undoubtedly it was worth a small fortune, for the museums of the Earth held only a few such weapons. But now Ben Jacobs lay in a heap on the floor of the plant, struck down by a burly Selenite.

To Jacobs the sword had been a symbol. He had carried it from the Earth to this forsaken planet, where the only evidence of life was ten huge domes of quartz set over as many mines, owned and operated completely by the Universal Ore Mining Company.

Only twenty-four hours ago he had told Tom the story of the sword. Now Jacobs lay motionless on the floor and the ancient blade was dyed with the blood of vanquished foemen.

Gently Tom lowered the point of the sword to the floor and gazed upon his handiwork. Before him lay three bodies. One was that of a Martian, a yellow-skinned, eight-limbed body, the skin covered with hideous warts. The grinning head, almost severed from the trunk, boasted three eyes, two in the same position as those of a Terrestrial, the other on the top of the hairless head. The mouth was large, as was also the nose, with the ears almost twice as large as those of an Earth man.

The other two bodies were those of Selenites, the gigantic Moon men with their small heads, their abnormally developed torsos and correspondingly large, powerful arms and their small, but singularly powerful legs, built on the same lines as those of a kangaroo.

Tom lifted the sword again and ran his fingers along its edge. They came away red and sticky.

He laughed grimly. The sword, ancient weapon as it may have been, had another tale added to the long list which had started, said legends, in the year 1815, in the Napoleonic Wars. For century upon century the blade had been regarded as a heirloom, a thing of sentiment. On this day, however, it had come again into its own. It had leaped and flashed, bitten deeply into flesh and bone, drunk blood.

Stepping over the body of one of the Selenites, Tom made his way to the side of the prostrate figure of Ben Jacobs. He had seen Jacobs felled like an ox by the huge fist of one of the now dead Selenites, but there was a chance the man still lived.

Kneeling on the floor, he placed his ear to the breast of the prone body. There was not so much as a flutter of the heart. Tom turned his attention to Jacobs’ head and what he found there convinced him the brilliant young scientist, who had been in charge of the atmosphere plant, was no longer alive.

Tom stood up and gazed about the death-ridden room. It presented a spectacle of ordered complexity with its many dials, tubes, pipes, valve controls, motors and the huge central control board. A silence, which was only accentuated by the steady hum of the machinery, assailed him and he suddenly realized he was the only Terrestrial alive at Shaft Number Nine.

Outside there might still lurk a few of the Selenites and possibly a few Martians, but they would be few. The only machine gun at the station, spitting out over 150 atomic pellets every minute, had wrought havoc among the mutineers before a stone, thrown by one of the Selenites, had bowled over McGregor, the radio operator. The latter, who had been taken unawares by the outbreak, had been unable to reach his post to send out an S.O.S.; and had philosophically, and entirely in keeping with his Scotch blood, done the next best thing by unlimbering the gun and turning it against the mob of howling miners who were destroying the radio station.

If McGregor had been at his desk, as his duty required him to be, instead of playing a few hands of cards with old Andy Schwartz, the head engineer, word of the uprising and an appeal for help would have been sent out at once. Failing in this, he had at least saved the mine and costly apparatus from immediate destruction, by the simple process of reducing the number of hands for the performance of the pending destruction.

The uprising had been a complete surprise, coming just as the second shift was coming out of the shaft and the third shift ready to go down. The miners in Shift Number One, evidently by a pre-arranged signal, had come storming forth from their quarters as soon as the attack was launched.

Evidently the captains underground had been neatly disposed of, for there had been no warning anything was amiss. The first indication of trouble came when the men had come up without the captains. Even before questions could be asked concerning the absent Terrestrials, the blow had been struck.

“It’s those damn Martians,” Hal Eaton, young time keeper, only six weeks from the Earth, had screamed as a huge Selenite struck him down with a blow of his mighty pick.

Tom, jerking his atomic pistol from its holster, knew that what young Eaton had just screamed was true. The Martians were the trouble-makers and the traitors of the solar system. Once an insolent people, who had regarded themselves as the most advanced in culture and erudition in the universe, they still, even after hundreds of years, resented the bondage in which it had been necessary to place them to curb their diabolic cunning and haughty egotism. They were forever forming secret societies, always cooking up local revolutions. Where there was trouble, one would usually find a scheming Martian.

Tom leveled the pistol at the mob of Selenites rushing at him and pressed the trigger. There was a sharp, spiteful spat. The leading Moon man disappeared in a puff of white dust, his upraised shovel clattering to the ground.

Rapidly the pistol spat and the charge broke. Even the ape-brained Selenites, who seldom knew fear, could not stand in front of that pistol which caused one of their number to evaporate into thin air every time it spoke.

From all over the compound came the sound of firing and the pounding of many feet on the hard packed earth. There were no other sounds. It was uncanny, the way these dumb, ox-like Selenites attacked, silently, ponderously, armed only with their mining tools, or lacking these, with bare hands.

From somewhere near the atmosphere plant came a rapid “pit-pat,” a sound not unlike the tramp of rain across a tin roof. Someone had unlimbered the machine gun. Lucky thing! Lulled into a false sense of security by the apparent orderliness of the station, the former superintendent, a soft fool who had no business holding such a position, had ordered the gun stored away as a thing for which there would be no further need. He had lasted six months and had been transferred back to Earth, at his own request. Too bad he couldn’t have stayed to taste the fruits of his asinine management.

A stone whizzed past Tom’s head. The Moon men were returning. They had retreated as far as the rock pile. From around the corner of the pile they came, each carrying an armful of missiles, heaving them as they ran.

Tom jerked up his arm, leveling his gun. Before he could press the trigger a rock, flung with considerable strength, caught him flush on the elbow. The gun clattered to the baked earth.

As he dived to retrieve it, another stone struck him in the ribs and toppled him sidewise. Stones pattered all about him and as he struggled to his knees he was again bowled over.

The Moon men were almost upon him. They were rotten throwers, or they would have bagged him for good and all. They couldn’t keep on making only casual hits, however. Eventually one would connect with his head and it would be lights out. For a fleeting moment, he hoped one would finish him before the lousy beggars reached him.

“Lie low, I’ll clean the devils out.”

Tom twisted his head as the spiteful rattle of the machine gun broke loose.

In front of the atmosphere plant, old McGregor, his white hair looking like a lion’s mane, his shirt ripped to shreds, his teeth working savagely on an oversized quid of tobacco, squatted behind the gun. It seemed to quiver with the excitement of the moment as it spat out blasting death.

Over Tom’s head the pellets whispered their death song and behind him he knew the charging Selenites were being blown into clouds of white ash.

Slowly he started to worm his way toward McGregor, keeping his head low, for he did not wish to intercept one of the lethal pellets.

The patter of the gun and the whisper of the speeding bullets ceased.

“All right, lad,” cried old McGregor and Tom, leaping to his feet, rushed forward, forgetting his pistol, which lay where it had fallen.

When he was only a matter of a few feet from the old man, who was disengaging a magazine preparatory to slipping another into place, a Martian, followed by two Selenites rushed around the corner of the atmosphere plant.

Before Tom could warn his friend, one of the Selenites hurled a stone, which caught McGregor flush on the temple.

The old man slowly slid from his seat on the gun. The Martian and the two Selenites raced for the door of the atmosphere plant.

Tom leaped after them, forgetful for the moment that he was unarmed. As he sped past old McGregor he noted that the white leonine head rested in a pool of blood and that a death pallor stamped the features.

Cursing under his breath, Tom rushed the three mutineers who were trying by brute force and awkwardness to force the locked door of the plant.

Seeing the Earth-man almost upon them, the two Selenites, trained for years to look upon the Terrestrials as their superiors and masters, momentarily forgot their rebellion and crying out in terror, threw their combined weight against the door. It splintered inward under the impact.

Tom arrived at the doorway just in time to see one of the huge brutes crush young Jacobs to the floor with a savage blow of his fist.

At Tom’s cry of rage the three whirled to face him. The faces of the two Moon men were expressionless except for their beady eyes, which shone with a wild light; the features of the Martian were distorted into the snarl of a cornered beast.

It was then Tom realized he was unarmed. His eyes lighted upon the sword lying on the table to his left. It had been only a few hours ago he had listened to the tale of that very sword from the lips of Jacobs. It was a thrilling tale, a story of the days when men fought hand to hand.

His left hand reached out to clutch the scabbard and as he jerked the steel from its resting place, the three leaped to meet him.

With his back to the table he jabbed at the leading Selenite, to send him reeling backwards, howling with pain and clutching his belly. The point off the blade was red.

The second Moon man momentarily checked his rush and, seizing this opportunity, Tom leaped at him with the sword raised high. The brute tried to dodge, but the steel, fairly whistling through the air, caught him at the juncture of the neck and shoulder, cleaving deep. The Moon man slumped to the floor and the blade came free.

A heavy wrench, thrown by the Martian, missed Tom’s head by a fraction of an inch and crashed into an array of bottles on a shelf against the wall.

“I’m coming to get you,” said Tom, addressing the Martian, and the fellow snarled in hate as he backed across the room before the advance of the Terrestrial.

The remaining Selenite, still clutching his belly, staggered forward to place himself between the Earthman and the Martian. Without ado Tom methodically cut him down with a thrust to the throat.

Stepping over the prostrate body, he advanced on the Martian, who was crouched in a corner of the room.

Then, with his six arms outstretched, fingers hooked like talons about to strike, his fang-rimmed mouth opened wide, the Martian sprang to the attack.

Tom, taken by surprise, sprang back and stumbled over the dead Selenite, sprawling backwards, flat on his back, with the Martian almost on top of him.

He looked straight into the red eyes of his assailant, felt the talon-like fingers on his throat. The fanged mouth poised over his face drooled saliva on his cheek.

With all his strength, Tom brought his clenched left fist up, striking the Martian on the temple. As the grip of the fingers momentarily loosened under the impact of the blow, he threw himself sideways and rolled free of the man above him.

Both men sprang to their feet at the same instant and faced one another.

Tom lifted the sword.

“I surrender, I surrender,” mouthed the Martian, fear in his eyes at the sight of the glistening blade poised to strike.

With a crooked smile on his lips, Tom brought the sword down. The Martian, his eight limbs sprawling grotesquely, sagged to the floor, his head almost severed from his body.

Tom wiped the sword and returned it to the scabbard.

Jacobs was dead. So was McGregor. There was no doubt all of the other Terrestrials, except himself, had likewise been killed.

Standing in the center of the room, he tried to determine his next course.

There were likely a few dozen Moon men and Martians still at the station. They were probably already at their work of destruction, wreaking their foolish vengeance upon the dominant Earth race that forced them to labor in the mines and forests on the several far-flung planets.

He cold-bloodedly considered the situation. First he would arm himself and routing out the last of the mutineers, slay them. Then he would remain until assistance came. Headquarters at Shaft Number One, failing to get messages through, would suspect something amiss and investigate. In a very few hours his plight would be discovered.

The atmosphere plant, even unattended, would function for a few hours, long enough, at least, for the investigating party to arrive.

In a cabinet drawer Tom found a pistol and assuring himself it was loaded, slipped it into his holster.

As he started for the door his attention was arrested by a dial. The needle was swinging crazily. He stared in amazement, then in despair. One of the fools had evidently managed to open one of the air locks in the dome and the atmosphere was rushing out into the almost airless desert. Soon the two atmospheres would be equalized and every man caught without some sort of artificial protection and oxygen generator would be killed.

There was only one thing to do. He must reach one of the cars and escape to Shaft Number Eight, ten miles distant.

As he reached the door he realized he still clutched the sword and was about to drop it, when he made a sudden decision to take it with him. Why, he didn’t know. Perhaps, he told himself with a grin, Jacobs’ family might like it returned if and when he got back to Earth.

Outside, a violent wind, something unknown under the great dome, caught and almost swept him off his feet. It was caused by the air rushing for the open lock.

A World of Chaos

Bucking the air currents, which buffeted him cruelly, Tom fought his way across the yard to the car shed.

Here he found everything in disorder. Three machines, smashed and dented by some heavy tool, possibly a sledge hammer, met his eye. There had been four cars. One was missing. Evidently a party of the mutineers had smashed the three cars and escaping in the remaining one, had left one of the air locks open. There must have been a Martian or two in the party. The cow-headed Selenites didn’t have the necessary intelligence to open one of the doors, let alone operate a car.

Tom cursed bitterly. In an hour the dome would be atmospherically equal to the desert outside, in which no man could live. Why did those bone-headed officials insist that every mine employ a few Martians? It would have been better to have killed off the entire race.

There was the matter of the cars, too. Why didn’t the company give them light rocket planes instead? Economy again! A car cost about half of what a rocket plane would. What did the square-heads who held down swivel chairs care for the men in these ungodly outposts? Nevertheless, cars or planes, either would have been smashed. His job was to get out of the mess.

The air currents, streaming out of the dome toward the open lock, rattled the loose sheets of galvanized steel on the roof of the shed.

For a moment Tom considered trying to reach and close the lock, but he knew, even as he thought of it, that it would prove an impossible feat. Evidently it was Lock Three, a good half mile to the east. It would take too much time to get there and even if he could reach it, he knew that the air currents would sweep him like a straw through the opening into the dread desert where the thin atmosphere made life impossible.

There remained one chance.

Stored in the cars were metal suits for both the Terrestrials and their underlings, the Martians and Moon men. The suits were equipped with a small oxygen generator. The air, as manufactured, was cooled by a miniature refrigerator, similar to the large refrigeration plant in connection with the atmosphere generators under the dome. The suit, supplied with cool air which somewhat offset the heat of the desert, served well enough for short excursions from the dome or a car, but it was doubtful if a man could cover even ten miles of burning desert sands in one of them.

While encased in one a man could neither eat nor drink. The thought of hours without water was appalling, but there was little that could be done about it. It was the one chance—if the mutineers had not thought to also destroy the suits. Luckily in a locker of one of the wrecked cars he discovered a number of the suits.

The atmosphere was already becoming rare and his heart was pounding savagely as he donned one of them and switched on the atmosphere generator.

About the suit he strapped his pistol and Jacobs’ sword, and stumbled awkwardly forth, making his way to Lock Three.

Buffeted by the wind which carried with it a shower of fine stones and a cloud of dust, he proceeded through the yard, threaded his way along the streets of the location and found himself on the outskirts of the settlement, having covered about half the distance to the lock.

Behind him he heard a crash as one of the shaft houses, its guys loosened by the pressure of the wind against the tower, toppled to the ground.

Turning to watch he saw the second shaft house tumble, hurling broken boards and splinters far into the air. Sheets of corrugated iron, ripped from the roof of the buildings, gyrated across the yard.

He groaned. Working for many years with the Universal Ore Mining Company, it had become a part of his life, a very personal association. A blow at it was a blow at him. Station Number Nine would probably be completely wrecked by the terrific wind which milled in the great dome. It was wrecked as completely as it would have been by the victorious mutineers, had enough of them been left to effect the destruction.

Gallant men had died defending the station. Men he had known for years. Old McGregor, with his everlasting quid of tobacco and his lion heart. Young Jacobs, a brilliant scientist, a fine young fellow, with his old sword, the sword which now hung at Clark’s side.

Eyes dimmed with tears, he faced about and plodded on.

The atmosphere machine was working well. He knew, however, that discomfort would be his in plenty before many miles had been covered. In the back of his mind lurked a persistent doubt of his ability to make those ten long miles of airless, scorching desert. But these thoughts he kept pushing back, realizing that any such doubts would only serve to minimize his chances of reaching Station Number Eight.

The wind was dying down now, but he walked slowly, knowing it would not be safe to approach the lock too soon, lest he be caught and dashed through the opening to his death.

Behind him the settlement was a mass of wreckage, only the stoutly built atmosphere plant standing.

The terrific air currents, in a few minutes, had decreased in ferocity, and Tom deemed it safe to make his way through the lock, which lay only a short distance ahead. He moved toward it. The air currents still tugged at him, but were steadily dying down.

Reaching the lock Tom noticed that the inner portal was intact, pressed tight against the air chamber, but the outer portal was ripped from its hinges and lay a hundred yards out in the desert, deeply embedded in the sand.

For a moment Tom stood in the air chamber, pondering. If he could close the inner door and the atmosphere plant was still working, he could again bring about a suitable atmospheric condition. He suspected it would take some time to restock the huge dome with life-sustaining air. Just how long, he did not know. He was a geologist, not an engineer. While the plant manufactured the air, he could live in the suit and await the coming of a rescue party.

He grasped the door and slowly pulled it back into its proper position. It came to with a hollow sound, but there was no resounding click as the automatic bolts shot home.

Inside the helmet, Tom’s face paled. The lock was broken, smashed in the course of a diabolic plot on the part of the mutineers to destroy the station. The last chance was gone. The desert was the only remaining hope.

Tom squared his shoulders. If only the desert remained, the desert it would be.

Stepping out of the air chamber, his eyes opened wide. To his left, several hundred yards distant, lying on its side, was the car which had apparently been stolen by the Martians and Selenites.

His heart thumping with excitement Tom hurried forward. Evidently something had happened. Ten to one the poor fools had forgotten that opening the two doors at the same time would be as disastrous to themselves as to those in the dome. The first blast had hurled the car and its occupants to destruction.

Upon reaching the machine he found that three of the ports had been smashed. Looking inside he saw the corpses of six Moon men and two Martians, their eyes wide with terror, their mouths stained with blood.

The hope which had risen in him at the sight of the car vanished as he noted the extent of the damage. Besides the three smashed ports, he saw that some of the machinery was also broken. A slight damage he might have repaired, and righting the car by means of jacks, used it in his enforced trip across the desert.

That hope also was now gone.

For a moment he considered remaining near or in the dome to await the coming of a rescue ship.

Little thought was needed, however, to convince him that it would be a foolhardy thing to do. If the rescue ship did not arrive in three hours they would find his corpse inside the suit, for it was beyond human endurance to remain in one longer. If nothing else, a man would go stark, raving mad from the discomfort and the heat, which, after a time, the miniature refrigerator could not mitigate.

He must tackle the desert. There was no alternative. Perhaps he would reach Shaft Number Eight—perhaps not.

With the sand sliding under his feet and the sun, forever hanging like a huge ball of fire over the eastern horizon, beating pitilessly upon his left side, he started the long trek.

He walked in a world where no living thing existed. On every hand was white and yellow sand as dry as dust, drained long ago of any moisture the surface of the planet may once have held. Here and there lay grotesque piles of boulders. There was no life, not a single tree, or a blade of grass. There was no appreciable atmosphere, no water. It was a dead planet, chained forever to its tyrant master, the sun, its rotation on its own axis slowed down so that one heat-tortured hemisphere eternally faced the sun, while the other, frozen solid and night-ridden forever, stared out into infinite space.

Here, on the twilight belt was the only spot on the planet where man, even with the aid of all the artificial protection at his beck and call, could exist at all. Here, on the rim of the planet, where the rays of the sun were always nearly horizontal, man could live if he had at hand means of creating oxygen and a protection from the semi-vacuum of the desert.

To the left lay a seething furnace of a world, to the right, a frigid ice box of a world.

For what seemed ages, Tom tramped, stumbling, across the scorching desert. The treacherous, sliding sand, time after time, brought him to his knees. Despite the slight attraction of gravity, his progress was slow, for the suit was heavy. On earth its weight would have crushed a man flat to the ground.

He had covered approximately four miles when he saw looming a short distance ahead of him a gigantic ridge of tumbled gray rock. It was one of those occasional outcroppings which occurred on the surface of the planet.

Tom noted it with relief. It would offer shade, momentary respite from the burning rays of the sun. Fagged, he headed for the outcropping.

It seemed an interminable distance, but finally he reached it and slumped down in the shade, leaning against a huge boulder. With a sigh of thankfulness, he closed his eyes. He could not remain there long, but he meant to make the most of it.

Opening his eyes he saw two shadows moving across the sand beyond the limit of the shade. Evidently some living thing was on the ridge of rock behind him.

Getting swiftly to his feet, he faced two Martians, equipped with shining air suits.

For a split second Tom stared in surprise at the two, then his hand snapped to his holster. But his steel gloved fingers found it empty. His face blanched. Somewhere on the back trail the pistol had dropped out and now lay in the sands of the trackless desert.

The Martians had watched as his hand went back to his side. Now as he gazed at them he saw a slow, crooked smile come over their ugly faces behind the glass helmets. They knew his pistol was gone; that he was easy prey.

They carried huge clubs fashioned of wood, probably with a good chunk of lead weighing the business end, and these they now shifted to obtain a better grip as they moved toward him.

As his hand came away from the holster it struck the hilt of the sword and his fingers closed about it.

As he retreated slowly before the deliberate advance of the Martians, he jerked the blade from the scabbard.

Seeing the flash of steel and realizing that their foe was armed with some sort of a strange weapon, the two Martians leaped silently forward, five hands outstretched in the usual manner of attack, the sixth member clutching the upraised club.

Tom knew the greatest danger lay in the clubs of his opponents breaking the steel of his suit or smashing his helmet, thus robbing him of his artificial atmosphere and exposing him to the horrible vacuum of the planet.

Hampered by his awkward suit, he knew he would be unable to sidestep the blows of the club, so he resorted to different tactics.

The point of the sword flicked out, aimed straight at the wrist of the Martian who was closing in, with the club already descending. There was no sound of steel on steel, for in that atmosphereless place no sound was possible. But the aim of the Martian was deflected and the club missed its target, Tom’s helmet, by a wide margin.

Tom now turned his attention to the other Martian. If he could slash the armored suit of the second attacker, he would have only one foe.

The Martian raised his club, but as the sword drove at him point first, he stepped quickly backward, out of reach of the threatening point. Following this advantage Tom lunged again and the point struck hard against the armored breast, the force of the blow knocking the Martian off balance, so that he fell sprawling to the sands.

Almost feeling his other foe close behind him ready to strike, Tom swung on his heel, but his apprehension was unfounded, for the other lay, a heap of glistening armor, in the shade of the ridge.

In some unaccountable manner the sword point, in striking the wrist to ward off the blow, had penetrated the steel. Just a small hole, perhaps, but the Martian had died as the air rushed out of the suit.

He turned quickly to the second Martian, who was struggling to his feet. With a powerful and well directed kick Tom sent him reeling, to sprawl again on his back. With sword raised high, both fists clutching the hilt, ready to put every ounce of strength into a blow calculated to smash its way through heavy steel, Tom straddled the prostrate foeman.

The Martian raised clasped hands in signal of surrender and a plea for mercy, for all the world like a dog groveling to ward off a well-deserved kick. Tom stared straight down into the warted, yellow face, upon which terror was stamped. Well might terror be there, for it was a tradition that any lesser man who raised a hand against a Terrestrial was automatically doomed to death. Seldom had mercy ever been shown.

As Tom stared down into the mottled face behind the helmet, something akin to sympathy touched his heart.

He slowly lowered the sword, touched the point gently on the Martian’s helmet and then raised it and with a questioning look, pointed with it in several directions.

A flash of understanding came into the eyes of the prostrate figure and his lips moved slowly. He pointed toward the outcropping of rock.

Watching his lips, Tom read the word, “Ship.”

“It Is Not Only Mercury”

The Martian had come from a ship. But how had he obtained a ship? For ages no Martian had been anything other than a slave, a troublesome slave, but a slave, of a greater race.

Tom pointed to the body of the dead Martian and then to his captive.

“How many more?” he formed the words with his lips.

The Martian shook his head. He pointed to himself and his dead companion and again made the sign of negation. There were apparently no others.

Tom stepped back, sword still in hand, and motioned the other to rise.

Slowly Tom followed his captive, sword held ready for instant use, across the sand and up the rocky outcropping. At the top of the ridge the Martian halted and pointed with one of his six arms.

Looking in the direction of the pointing arm, Tom saw a small rocket plane resting on the sand. Upon its silver nose was painted the ancient emblem of Mars, a red equilateral triangle inside a blue circle which, in turn, was surrounded by a yellow square.

He marveled, for that emblem had not been seen, except in the museums of the worlds, for many years.

Inside the flyer, and with the air locks closed, Tom snapped back his helmet and gulped in great breaths of the pure air.

The Martian had also removed his helmet and now the two men faced one another.

“I don’t know why I let you live,” said Tom, “but I did. However, one false move and it’s taps for you.”

“Yes, master,” said the Martian in a voice humble and subservient.

“Where did you get this plane?” asked Tom.

“I and others took it and ten others from Station Number One a few hours ago.”

“Station One,” screamed Tom, clutching the sword. “Was there an uprising there, too?”

“At the same hour today, master, there was an uprising in every station on Mercury.”

Tom took a step forward.

“Were all successful?”

“I do not know, master. All should have been. They were carefully planned.”

“And the emblem of Mars?”

“Tars Kors and I painted it while we were waiting here for the arrival of our men from Station Number Nine. They should be arriving at any time now. If they do not arrive in a half hour, I am supposed to make an observation flight around the dome.”

Tom smiled grimly.

“Put on your helmet,” he said. “You are going to paint out your damned emblem and paint in the correct one. You needn’t expect your friends from Number Nine. They are all dead. Also, if there is any flying to be done, I do it. Understand?”

The Martian nodded and donned his helmet. Under the directions of the Terrestrial he painted out the emblem of Mars and painted in its stead an emblazoned golden sun, insignia of the Earth.

Back in the flyer, always keeping a watchful eye on his captive, Tom checked over the machine. It was one of the police craft maintained by the government at Station Number One for emergency calls and was built for speed and intricate maneuvers, a fighting ship.

It was equipped with four guns, one a projector of the Allison heat ray, and the other three rapid fire guns.

Everything seemed in perfect condition.

“How did you capture these machines?” asked Tom. The police were not often caught napping and they were fighters of renown.

“Our plans were well laid, master,” said the Martian blandly.

Tom snorted. They must have been well laid, he thought. According to this fellow’s story, Mercury had at one stroke fallen into the hands of the Martians, who had used the stupid Moon men as mere pawns to crush the Terrestrial rule.

“What about firearms?” he asked. “How does it happen you tackled me with clubs? Are there no pistols on board?”

“It was all very confusing,” explained the Martian, “Tars Kors and I were only to capture the flyer and bring it here to meet the men from Station Number Nine. Undoubtedly, if they had come, they would have brought firearms.”

“And what do you fellows plan to do now that you have momentarily conquered Mercury?”

The Martian spread six claw-like hands.

“A start, master, just a start. We plan to establish independence.”

“A hell of a fat chance you have,” Tom informed him. “Don’t you know that only a few hours will bring a flight of fighters that will wipe out every one of you.”

The Martian smiled crookedly.

“But, master,” he used the word with faint sarcasm, “it is not only Mercury.”

Tom started.

“You scum! Do you mean—”

“Everywhere, at the same hour, the Martian struck, aided by the other races you have enslaved. On Mars, on Earth, on Venus, on every planet and satellite—”

“Enough,” screamed Tom. “Another word out of you and I’ll wring your filthy neck. You poor fools! You would try to conquer the masters!”

“Yes, master,” said the Martian.

Tom leaped at the man and his fist, lashing out like a whip, smashed squarely into the leering, yellow, wart-covered face. The Martian spun like a top, slipping and sliding across the metal floor, to crash with a thud into a corner.

With feet spread far apart, Tom glared at the Martian.

“Get into that seat,” he snarled, pointing to the pilot’s chair, “and do exactly what I tell you. If you pull one boner I’ll chop you to bits with this sword.”

The terrified Martian scrambled out of the corner and scuttled for the seat.

“Now, listen to me,” said Tom, “there are at least ten other machines that you rats have stolen. We are out to get them. We are going to wipe out as many Martians and Moon men as we can before it’s all over with us. You and I are going to do that—you and I—do you understand? We are going to be avengers—”

The Martian half rose out of his seat, but Tom struck him with his open palm and he again collapsed into it.

“If we get out of this,” Tom told him, “I’ll swear that you stuck by me, that you still were faithful. I’ll recommend you for special privileges. Do you understand?”

The Martian nodded.

“If you fail me, however, I’ll finish you myself. Now start her up and get out of here. Fly straight ahead until I tell you to do something else. Remember I am right behind you at the gun controls and your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel to me.”

The Martian kicked the starter and the rocket motors came to life. With a roar the machine shot forward, taking off easily and smoothly.

In a few minutes the shining dome of Station Number Eight loomed on the horizon.

As the flyer swept down over the dome, Tom saw a plane resting before one of the locks. Close beside it stood a car, which was disgorging figures clad in metal suits. Another car lumbered out of the air locks and made for the plane, upon which was emblazoned the Martian symbol. The victors were transporting their forces to the stolen plane.

Swiftly he spun a wheel and through the range finders saw the plane outlined against the cross-hairs. But before he could touch the lever which released the heat ray, the floor tilted sickeningly beneath his feet.

Whirling from the gun controls he leaped at the Martian.

“Put her up,” he shouted. When his command was not obeyed he struck a single blow, knocking the pilot out of the seat.

Through the observation window he glimpsed the ground rushing up at him. The sturdy little ship groaned in every joint as he put it up sharply, missing the ground by only a few feet. The rocket exhausts roared louder as the ship charged upward at a tremendous speed.

The Martian lay huddled at the foot of a locker, dead to the world. Tom had not pulled the punch which had spun the helpless one out of the pilot’s chair.

At a mile altitude Tom leveled off the ship and nosed it slightly downward. Far below him the Martian ship was taking off. Just above the horizon he glimpsed the dome of Station Nine, which he had quitted a few hours before.

Tom again put the ship up. There was no sense in attempting to fight. He could not pilot the machine and handle the guns at the same time.

He cursed the silent figure on the floor. If the blasted fool had only stuck to his job. Nevertheless, one could hardly blame the fellow. It wasn’t natural to fight your own. Probably, under similar circumstances, he would have done the same.

Through a port he saw the Martian plane far behind, following rapidly. The emblem of the Earth on the nose of his machine must have been sighted.

He went back to the controls and advanced the little plane to top speed. With his lighter load he might be able to outdistance the Martian machine.

Over the horizon loomed the dome of Station Seven and a few minutes later Station Six swung into view. Stations Five and Four were past and the Martian plane was falling far behind.

Another dome appeared ahead of the racing flyer. Above it hung a huge silver ship, which Tom recognized as the transport from Station One.

As he watched, the dome, lying directly beneath the transport, crumbled, falling in upon itself, a cloud of dust rising slowly.

The Martians, having captured the transport, were using the huge heat ray machine aboard to destroy the domes. It seemed their purpose to destroy every work of man on the planet.

Red rage rising in him, Tom leaped to the gun controls, moved the ray nozzle to point straight down, shoved the release lever over and locked it in position.

Back at the pilot controls he threw the ship down in a long dive, straight over the transport. Passing directly over the ship the ray would slice it in two—halt further destruction of the domes. The ray machines on the smaller planes, he knew, were not large enough to touch the huge quartz structures.

With the speed indicator pressed against the pin, the machine flashed down, the ray streaming beneath it.

Tom brought the plane to an even keel and almost as the transport disappeared beneath the machine, he heard a faint click.

Beside the gun controls stood the Martian, his hand still upon the ray lever. He supported himself by gripping the iron railing which ran around the control board. The effects of the blow had not totally left him. He was evidently still dizzy, but the half smile on his repulsive features told Tom he had reached the controls in time to save the transport.

For a moment the two stood eye to eye, then Tom’s hand went back to the hilt of the sword and jerked the blade free. There was not a word spoken.

At the sight of the blade in Tom’s hand, the Martian seemed to come to life. He leaped away from the gun control and ran toward the end of the ship. The Terrestrial dived after him.

The ship tilted far to one side and both of the men lost their balance on the sloping floor. Tom, still clutching the sword, crashed solidly against the side of the hull.

One of the locker doors on the opposite side swung open and with a clatter a varied assortment of tools hit and slid across the floor.

Struggling to his feet, Tom worked his way up the slanting floor to the controls. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Martian huddled in one corner of the cabin.

With his outstretched fingers almost touching the control lever, Tom turned again to look at the Martian.

What he saw brought a scream from his lips. On his knees before one of the ports, the Martian was aiming a heavy wrench at the quartz. If that quartz were broken it meant death for both of them. With a rush the air would leave the flier and both of them would fall in their tracks.

At the sound of the scream, the Martian turned his head and his aim was deflected. The wrench brought up with a metallic crash against the hull, missing the port by a scant inch.

Quickly the Martian poised the wrench again and as he did so Tom hurled the sword at him. End over end the weapon flew. Its point caught the man of Mars at the base of the skull and drove deep. The Martian rolled to one end and the wrench clattered to the plates of the floor.

Tom stared. He had not thought he would kill the man by merely throwing the weapon. It had been his intention to thwart the other in his act and then to settle with him in a hand-to-hand encounter. After all, it didn’t matter. Sooner or later one of them would have had to die. There was not room on the ship for both of them.

He fought his way up the inclining floor to the controls. The ship, he saw, had nosed upward and was tearing spaceward. He brought it on even keel and turned it down.

Far below him, he saw the surface of Mercury. He could plainly see the nine domed stations, but only six of the domes remained intact. To his right he could see the edge of the hot side of the planet, where molten ores bubbled eternally and lakes of melted lead sent up fumes that mingled with the low-lying gases that hung over the entire Sunward half of the planet.

Between the twilight belt and this seething cauldron ran a low lava ridge, which rose at varying heights over the level of the molten sea. At places, Tom could see, unusual activity in the sluggish liquid metal had sent streams of it coursing out into the twilight belt, where it ran slowly for several miles before congealing. He suspected that here lay the secret of the rocky ridges, beside which he had met the two Martians.

To his left he saw the stark frigidness of the cold side of the planet. There, chained forever as ice and frost, was the last vestige of the atmosphere and water of Mercury.

He glanced down toward the region where the domes lay and saw that ships were rapidly taking off from Station Three. The huge transport, slower in motion than the smaller planes, was far below him and to the right.

He grinned grimly. The planes were too low to attack him, and the transport, much too valuable for the Martians and Selenites to lose, was moving out of the way of chance rays.

He would see about that. It was plainly up to him to destroy the transport. It was too dangerous to leave it in the hands of the mutineers. With it, they could leave Mercury. It was the only space-going ship on the planet. It had arrived only a few hours before with supplies for the stations, consisting largely of explosives to be used in the mines. He wondered if it had been unloaded.

The planes were climbing swiftly toward him. He could see the Martian symbol, painted on the bow of the foremost, flashing in the sunlight. Behind the first plane trailed at least a dozen others.

They had gained too great an altitude for him now to attack the transport. He would have to fight his way through. He realized he must be cautious. He was fairly familiar with the operation of a ship, and in that one thing he had an advantage over the Martians and Selenites, who were rank amateurs. In all other things the enemy had the advantage. They were greater in number and each ship carried a gunner.

Sharply he swung the ship up and locked the controls. Leaving the pilot’s chair, he moved to the gun controls. Here he moved the ray nozzle to point slightly forward and down. The three rapid fire guns he aimed straight ahead and to each control lever tied a length of copper wire. He shoved the ray control clear over and locked it in position, and trailing the copper wires in his hand went back to the pilot’s seat.

Carefully he arranged the wires where he could grasp them at a second’s notice and then in a long loop turned the plane over and plunged down.

To the thirteen planes pursuing him had been added several others. Only then did Tom realize the true odds against him. With the vicious heat ray streaming from the nozzle under the machine he dived with reckless speed at the attackers. Like a plummet he dropped toward the lead plane. He could plainly see one of the rapid fire guns mounted on it quivering and knew that he was under fire. So far, however, none of the atomic pellets had found their mark and he doubted if they would at that distance. The distance was great even for an experienced gunner and the Martians were far from that.

Half a mile above the lead plane, he leveled off and went up in a great zoom to gain altitude. On altitude everything depended. So long as he could keep above his attackers, all was well; once he fell below them he was at their mercy.

Beneath him the lead plane, caught in the Allison ray, split in two and plunged toward the surface, a mass of smoking wreckage. Another plane, its right wing seared by the ray, tottered for a moment in midair and then side-slipped, falling faster and faster, defying all the frantic efforts of its pilot to right it.

With the rocket exhaust roaring like mad, Tom’s plane swung over on its back and nosed down again. Almost directly beneath him the Terrestrial saw three of the mutineers’ planes and jerked one of the copper wires. One of the rapid fire guns clattered viciously and one of the planes disappeared in a puff of white smoke. Tom’s hand jerked at a control and the plane protested with a groan of metal at a slight change in direction. Another plane, however, brought directly beneath the nose of the Terrestrial’s ship, also disappeared in a white cloud that slowly sifted downward.

As Tom leveled off, one of the Martian planes turned over on its back and from its underside a ray sliced upward, but missed the Terrestrial ship by a wide margin.

Off to the right and just over the edge of the ridge which separated the twilight belt from the hot side of the planet, Tom saw the transport hanging in all its silver bulkiness. There was not a single ship between it and him! With a catch in his breath he flung his ship down in a long dive. His heart sang exultantly as the machine screamed down on the transport.

Those on the great ship must have noticed his maneuver, for the huge transport stirred, swinging slowly around in an attempt to escape. It was not built, however, for quick getaway. It had not a single chance to elude the lightning flier.

Not more than a hundred feet above it, Tom drove his plane, and as he screamed over it, he swung back hard on the control lever and the little ship shrieked upward. Beneath him the transport, cleanly rayed, split in two, dropped toward the molten sea.

Tilting the machine, Tom stared down through a side observation port. He gasped in amazement and then held his breath.

Where the transport had fallen rose a great geyser of molten ore and rock. Slowly a part of the great ridge toppled and fell. Like a monstrous tongue of flame the molten geyser curled over and poured downward, while the mighty sea of sluggish liquid rushed for the hole blown in the ridge which separated the twilight belt from the hot side of the planet. Great clouds of heavy gases rolled upward, blotting out the scene below. The planes driven by the Martians, caught in the terrible blast, were tossed about like leaves in an autumn gale and out of control, were falling back to the surface. The only thing that had saved him from a similar fate, Tom knew, was his hasty break for altitude after raying the transport.

The transport had carried a consignment of explosives, he remembered, and had arrived only a few hours before the general mutiny. Evidently it had not been unloaded and had exploded when the disabled ship struck the bubbling sea.

At three miles he leveled off and stared down at the surface of the twilight belt. Like a great river the molten metal was pouring through the break in the wall and was rapidly spreading over the unprotected region. Not a single plane was in the air.

As he watched, the advancing flood struck Station Number Three and seemed to rear up to surge over it. Even from his great height he saw pitifully small figures running for their lives before the great wave. He knew that, hampered by space suits, they could not run far before being overtaken.

Part of the wave seemed to be congealing, but even as it did so, more of the molten stream poured over it and rushed on. One tongue gradually pushed its way across the belt and stopped only a few miles short of the cold side of the planet, frozen into a solid mass by the frigid conditions on that side of Mercury.

Tom noticed that the congealing of the metal stream was slowly backing up the outpouring of the liquid through the break in the wall. In a few hours a vast new barrier would be thrown up between the twilight belt and the bubbling ocean, but buried beneath that new barrier would be the failure of a rebellion on Mercury. The Terrestrial had proven himself master again.

A blue light flashed on the instrument board. He reached over and plugged in a connection. He spoke into a small microphone.

“Tom Clark, geologist of the Universal Ore Mining Company, stationed on Mercury, ready to receive,” he said.

“Commander James Smith, of the Earth vessel, Star Ogre, speaking,” replied a faint voice, “now running near orbit of Venus. Have five ships to put down uprising on Mercury. Hold on!”

“Send back four of your ships,” said Tom. “Only one is needed to take off survivors. The mutiny is suppressed.”

“How many survivors?” the voice asked laconically.

“Only one,” said Tom, “and that’s me.”