Ole Doc Methuselah Part 5

"Men," said Blanchard, "I expect there's going to be a little trouble."

This did not amaze the three or bother them. They had been sp.a.w.ned in trouble. Their mental reaction was that Blanchard could be shaken down for a little more now.

Not so Dart. He s.h.i.+fted his mask uneasily and mopped behind it with a silk cloth and squirmed. He felt rivulets of perspiration running inside his mailed jacket and yet he was chilly.

"Dart and I," said Blanchard, "have a task to perform, after which we will get a white ticket for the captain back there. The three of you leave your baggage at this point and go to the saloon. We will join you."

"What'll we do with this chest?" said one. He looked at the river.

There were m.u.f.fled beatings coming from within it now. It was true that someone might come near it and in- vestigate.

Blanchard waved a careless hand. "Make sure she's silent and then throw her in. Things are too complicated now for any part of that." He motioned to Dart and went on.

The three opened the chest and stood for a moment looking down at Alicia Elston.

Dart felt the chill deepening into his brittle bones as he slithered after his master. He looked out at the stars which winked and glared and saw, suddenly, that all this immen- sity was small indeed. Hardly a livable planet in this galaxy remained where a Soldier of Light had not trod. A thin, luminous wheel faintly beckoned-but it was difficult to get pa.s.sage on an intergalactic s.h.i.+p. Pa.s.sports, money, time. And a man with a slave pa.s.sport such as his would not get far. The very stars seemed to be crowding against him, pressing into his skull. He clawed suddenly at his mask for his breath was quick, and the abrupt flood of oxygen into his lungs made his pointed ears shrink and ring and the path before him blurred.

Blanchard cursed him as he stumbled and would have said more except for the hum of voices, hive-like, which came from the main section of the town. Uncertainly, Blanchard paused. He hesitated for some time at the edge of the field where stood the Morgue, rubbing his sweating palm against the b.u.t.t of his blaster. The hum increased and there were angry shouts.

Pointing at the crude landing tower beside them, Blan- chard ordered Dart up, watching his slave intently.

From the top, Dart viewed the town square and held on hard.

"Well?" yelled Blanchard.

"It's a big mob!" Dart shouted back. There was hysteria

in his voice. "That Soldier is up there on a platform talking to them! He's got a portable speaker but I can't hear-"

A renewed and savage howl came from the town, blotting Dart's words. Blanchard started across the field to the Morgue.

He scouted the big s.h.i.+p for a moment and then boldly, with past familiarity, wrenched open the port and went into the main control section. His eyes scanned the walls until they found the long-range weapon rack. He wrenched a missile thrower from its clamps and fitted its telescopic sight upon it. A moment later he was back at the landing tower and climbing.

His white fingers trembled as they gripped the hewn crossbars, for he was well aware of the crime he contem- plated and all that it might involve. But his fingers did not tremble when he levelled the missile thrower and there was only bitter calculation in his eye as he gazed through the scope, into the lighted square.

Ole Doc's image wavered in the gla.s.s and then steadied.

The finder against height registered six hundred and eighty metres. The sight whined for an instant and then flashed green. As the sight opened again, the entire square leaped into the widened, spotter field and the black light of the sight itself came back with all images clear and close.

There was a crash of fire against the pillar on Doc's right and he reeled. Sprays, like orange plumes, radiated down into the crowd and slammed men and women to earth. The material of the platform began to burn and at its base small green puffs bloomed where the dust was burning.

With considerable pride, glowing with the pleasure of good marksmans.h.i.+p, Blanchard looked long at the motion- less figure of the doctor about whom fire shoots began to sprout, first from the planking and then from his clothes.

Dart's hysterical tugging brought Blanchard away from the sight. The slave was gesturing at the river which lay on their right.

Bright starlight showed on two bodies which bobbed there, travelling evenly in the quiet current. A moment later a third crossed the light path of an enormous star.

The grisly trio hovered together in an eddy as though holding a ghostly conference and then, having decided nothing, drifted casually apart and travelled on.

"A drunken brawl," said Blanchard. And he would have

gazed again at the square except that he was almost dislodged by Dart's fleeing down the tower with such violence that even his slight weight shook it. He was screaming shrilly.

Blanchard's nerves were grating already. His anger flashed after the running slave. It was all too clear that Dart had broken before this crime's importance. And a broken slave-

Throwing the missile weapon to his hip, Blanchard shot at the running Martian. He tossed flame before the slave but Dart bolted on. Clicking the action over to automatic, Blanchard sprayed gouts of fire around and about the escaping man. But the recoil of the weapon was such that the last blast was directed more nearly at the zenith than at the runner.

Dart, however, had been hit. He was running still but his course was erratic and shortly brought him back into a pattern of fires the weapon had made. He stumbled out of this but now his clothing burned. He stopped, tore in agony at his mask. His screams were punctuated by the slaps of the tenacious mouthpiece against his lips. He turned once more and fell heavily into a fire, sending green drops hurtling up about him. The flames flared, smoke rose, and then no longer fed, the fire gutted down and went out.

Blanchard's hands were trembling as he reached for the crossbars to swing down from the landing tower. He was not without a sense of loss, and for a moment he was appalled at the manner he had handed death to one who, while he might have been cowardly, had at least been loyal. More than this he was shocked by his own lack of self-control, a shock which was doubled by a sickness he felt at being so far thrown out of orbit with his plans.

He reached the ground and, for a moment, hesitated.

But the heaviness of his cash-lined pocket and the knowl- edge that so far he had triumphed gave him courage. He took a deep breath of the cold night and then, with renewed a.s.surance, reloaded his missile weapon and looked about him.

It was not until then that an idea struck him. He crouched a little as though buffeted by the renewed yells coming from the centre of town. His gaze swept across the field to the Morgue. A white ticket? What did he need of a white ticket?

He laughed in a sharp bark. There were guns on the

Morgue. Ray disintegrators. And while the s.h.i.+p would have been bested in a battle with a major naval vessel, few transports would be so well armed. And even if the s.h.i.+p had no guns, one could stand her on her tail above this town and the other vessels in the port and leave not one sc.r.a.p of anything to tell the systems other than that s.p.a.ce pirates had evidently been at work.

The yells seemed louder. But without a glance back, Blanchard sprinted to the Morgue. A Soldier of Light.

Well, few would question the occupant of the s.h.i.+p and many were the dismal planets where one could jettison such as she and buy another for half the currency that would be aboard her.

It was for an instant only that Blanchard regretted the way in which he had been forced into doing things for which a man could be enslaved and sent to the h.e.l.ls forever. Elston had been his scapegoat. And a good one, for Elston was dead. But even then Blanchard doubted that any blame would be attached to anyone now except the inevitable s.p.a.ce pirates to which the System Police always a.s.signed blame for those crimes which otherwise were never solved. And in ten minutes this corner of Spico would be subject to certain chain reactions caused by either guns or tubes.

He ran past Dart-or the charred thing which had been Dart-and, so vividly was Blanchard seeing everything, he noted that the Martian's salametal tag was glittering brightly. Blanchard paused and tore off his own. There could as easily be two men in that ash pile as one. His identification tag clinked against Dart's.

Starting up again he ran on toward the door of the Morgue, gleaming palely golden in the starlight

"Blanchard!"

Despite himself he whirled, missile weapon at ready. He froze. Halfway between the landing tower and himself a man came running.

"Blanchard!"

He knew that voice. He now saw the man. It was Ole Doc! His clothing was charred, his left arm was held up by a belt. But it was Ole Doc. And behind him swarmed a dark cloud of people.

With a hasty shot, Blanchard made his pursuer dodge.

In an instant Blanchard had gained the port. Cursing he

brought it to and then raced into the control section.

Somewhere a door clanged.

Throwing the gun down Blanchard grabbed for the panel where the starting levers and throttles stood waiting.

One set was marked chemical for departure and landing on a port. The other set was marked atomic. It was the second that he thrust full ahead to "start". In about ten seconds there would be the beginning of the fission.

"Blanchard!"

About the s.h.i.+p the mob swung, many of them pa.s.sing by the tubes.