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Title: The Great Green Blight

Author: Emmett McDowell

Release Date: November 18, 2020 [EBook #63807]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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                        The Great Green Blight

                          By EMMETT McDOWELL

         The Empire of Earth was crumbling. Space-liners fell
           prey to savage phantom crews. A weird, green wave
          of terror engulfed the Universe. Enslavement of the
         Empire was near, and only a handful of men could halt
           the final blow ... a handful of men who could not
          act--for a single movement would mean their death.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Winter 1945.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Somewhere aboard the Super Space Liner, _Jupiter_, a resonant gong
sounded three times. Norman Saint Clair started, glanced uneasily
about the magnificent lounge. A gray fear gnawed at his vitals. With
a sinking heart, he watched the crowd, who had come to see off the
passengers, hurry out the port. This was his last chance to get off the
ship.

"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.

Norman Saint Clair spun around, recognized a Universal Lines steward,
grinned embarrassedly.

"First trip?" asked the yellow-clad steward.

The young man nodded.

"I wouldn't be too uneasy, sir. We'll pick up our escort this side of
the moon. A full ship of the line, sir. We're carrying radium, you
know. They wouldn't dare attack a ship of the line. May I see your
book, sir?"

Norman Saint Clair fumbled in his wallet, handed the steward his book.
Since Terra's ships had begun to disappear on the Earth to Jupiter run,
the Terrestial Intelligence Service required them of everyone traveling
through space. It contained his photograph, a three-dimensional
likeness showing a gaunt likeable face crowned by short, crisp blond
hair, a photostatic copy of his birth certificate, his description,
nationality, business, fingerprints, history.

Satisfied, the steward said: "This way, sir," and led him to an
acceleration chair at the after end of the lounge. "Strap yourself in,
sir. We start in a few moments."

The young man eased his lank, six-foot-two frame into the seat,
nervously fastened the belt. In spite of the steward's words, he was
not reassured. Ship after ship had vanished into the blue. Nor had the
vaunted Terrestial Navy or the T.I.S. been able to discover any trace
of them thereafter. Somewhere beyond the orbit of Mars their radios
crackled and blanked out. Space opened and swallowed them. It was
unprecedented. Never before in the history of space travel had anything
remotely like it occurred.

His eyes roved among the few passengers strapped in their chairs. They
were subdued. The sailing, unlike the gay hectic affairs before the
coming of the terror, was grim, quiet. No one, he realized, was making
the trip unless it was unavoidable.

With a touch of panic, he considered demanding to be set back on Terra
while there was yet time, but a stubborn streak made him hold to his
course. It was the same stubborn streak which had led him to book
passage aboard the _Jupiter_ in spite of the terror. A hundred times
he had regretted accepting the post of Lecturer on Ancient History at
distant Ganymede. He loved the quiet sanctuary of his library with
its collection of twentieth century authors. He had no ambition to
exchange his secure academic life for the uncertainty of a crude, rowdy
frontier. But the post had offered a good salary, much better than he
could expect on Earth for years.

A party of Colonial Guards swaggering across the lounge drew his
attention. They were a hard-faced lot, recruited from Earth's far-flung
frontiers. They constituted, he knew, a special armed guard, traveling
aboard the _Jupiter_ at the company's request. Universal was taking
no risk with the precious cargo of radium.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the Colonial Guards his eyes strayed across to the occupant of the
seat next to his. A girl. He stared, lost in admiration. He'd never
seen a creature so beautiful. Her black curly hair framed a pale oval
face. Her eyes were blue, her features delicate, chiseled. She was, he
realized with a start, regarding him with a mixture of amusement and
solicitude.

"First trip?" the girl asked, liking the frank scholarly face of the
young man.

He nodded.

"Just relax in your chair," she advised him. "The acceleration's pretty
fierce at first."

A second gong advised them the port was sealed. Several passengers
hurried into the lounge, flung themselves into acceleration chairs.
A voice, coming over the public address system, announced: "Strap
yourselves in carefully. Acceleration begins in three minutes." Twice
more the warning was repeated.

Norman Saint Clair's pulse beat rapidly. He felt frightened. Then a
faint hum made itself felt rather than heard.

The girl said, "Listen, the engines."

He thought they sounded like the hum of bees on a warm summer day. He
shivered, feeling that cold knife of fear slide into his vitals.

A giant hand slammed him in the chest, thrust him deep into the folds
of the acceleration chair. His breath was driven from his lungs. He
gasped, strained for air painfully. The die was cast, he realized
bitterly. There could be no turning back now. They were off.

In a few minutes the pressure slackened. He could turn his head. The
girl, he saw, had uncoupled her safety and was rising. He followed her
example, stood up unsteadily. The artificial gravity, two-thirds that
on Earth, was in effect. It gave him a light giddy sensation. He didn't
think he was going to enjoy the voyage.

"Isn't it delightful?" said the girl. "It always makes me feel
positively sylph-like."

Now that she was standing he could see how slim was her waist, how full
her hips, how long her legs. She stirred some atavistic sense in him. A
vein throbbed in his throat. I'm reacting like an animal, he thought.
Disgusting.

The girl held out her hand, said, "I'm Jennifer Scott. I'm going home
to Ganymede."

He took her hand, introduced himself. "I've been employed to lecture on
Ancient History at the Ganymede Seminar."

Jennifer clapped her hands. "Grand. Papa is commandant of the military
post. The fort is only a short distance from the Seminar. We'll be
neighbors. You'll love Ganymede. It's so wild and primitive."

"No doubt," he replied dryly.

Jennifer glanced at her watch, said, "It's time for lunch. I'm
ravenous. Shall we try the saloon or the grill." She seemed to have
assumed proprietorship of him. He rather liked it. He said, "Let's try
the dining saloon."

As he piloted her across the lounge, he observed again how few people
had booked passage. The fear returned, squeezed at his stomach. He said:

"Do you think it was wise to make the crossing at a time like this?"

"What?" said Jennifer. "Oh. You mean the terror. No, I suppose it
wasn't, and papa will be frantic. He sent me a spaceogram absolutely
forbidding me to return. But I was fed up."

"Fed up?"

"Yes, fed up with Earth and their dull stuffy ways," said the girl
passionately. "They're dead. They've forgotten how to play, or fight or
make love."

Norman Saint Clair was shocked. People who went to the Colonies, he had
always supposed, were driven to some such drastic step by the force of
circumstance--economic, possibly, as was his case. This view came as a
revelation, an unpleasant one.

"Anyway," continued the girl; "we're off. It's too late now."

They fell in behind a fat Earth woman, entered the passage which led
to the dining saloon. He started to ask the girl what she had found so
unpleasant about Earth, when the fat woman stopped, said: "Oh, my God!"
Then she began to scream. The screams lifted the hair right off Norman
Saint Clair's neck.

Jennifer cried, "What is it? What happened?"

Hesitantly, he peered over the screaming woman's shoulder, saw a man
stretched on the deck. He lay on his stomach, his head on one side,
disclosing a pale classical profile. He appeared young, little older
than Norman himself.

"I don't know," the young man replied. "Someone's hurt, I think."

He forced himself to push past the fat woman, kneel at the unconscious
man's side. What he saw made him sick. He looked away. A gout of blood
had spurted from the man's neck, dyed the green fiberon carpet scarlet.
His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

       *       *       *       *       *

Several passengers, alarmed by the Earth woman's screams, dashed into
the passage.

"What's wrong?"

"Something happened?"

"Dead!" the fat woman gasped. "My God, I almost stepped on him!" She
burst into strangling sobs.

A yellow-clad steward appeared. He couldn't see the body because of the
press. "What's the trouble, sir?"

Norman stared at him. "Murder," he said in a shocked voice. "This man
has been murdered. His throat's cut."

"Murder!" repeated the steward. "I'll get the captain." He scuttled off
down the corridor. The fat woman went into hysterics.

"Who could have done it?" breathed Jennifer. "Why?"

Norman Saint Clair shook his head. He rose from his knees, feeling
weak, shaken. He had never seen a dead man before.

"Here," said a man brusquely. "I'm a doctor. Let me see that man." He
shouldered to the front, knelt beside the body. Norman Saint Clair
relinquished his place with relief.

"Powerful man did that," the doctor pointed out. "Almost cut his head
off."

With a gulp Norman looked away.

"Here!" ejaculated the doctor. "Look at this!"

Curiosity dragged his eyes back. The doctor had rolled the body over,
turned back the lapel of the dark gray business suit. Norman saw a
small green disk pinned to the underside of the lapel. It was about the
size of a dime and died out to represent one of Earth's hemispheres.
Three letters in raised silver stood out on the green surface.
"_T.I.S._" he made out.

"An agent of the Terrestial Intelligence Service," breathed Norman.

The doctor rose, drew a handkerchief, wiped his hands. He was a tall
man, almost as tall as Norman, with gray hair. His brown eyes sought
the young man's. "He must have been working on the terror."

Norman nodded, thought that it didn't require any brilliant deduction
to guess that. Ninety percent of the T.I.S. force was trying to solve
it. The entire resources of the Empire were being drawn upon to uncover
the solution. Vital trade was at a standstill, and last week the
_Nebulae_, a crack luxury liner, had disappeared between Earth and
Mars with the Martian ambassador aboard. The incident had very nearly
severed diplomatic relations between the two worlds.

The doctor bit his lip, frowned, "I wish the Captain would get here,"
he said. He glanced anxiously at the gaping crowd, discovered the
blue-eyed, black-haired girl by Norman's side.

"Jennifer!" the doctor exclaimed.

"Hello, Doctor Pequod. I didn't want to interrupt your examination."

The doctor's frown deepened. "Jennifer, what's your father thinking to
let you travel at a time like this? He should realize it's dangerous."

"He doesn't know," replied Jennifer simply. "Doctor, this is Mr. Saint
Clair. He's going to lecture in the Ganymede Seminar."

Norman shook hands automatically. Although he refused to look at the
body his mind persisted in picturing it. He said, "Doctor, do you
realize there's a killer loose among us?"

"What do you take me for? A simpleton?" snorted the doctor.

"But Doctor," put in Jennifer; "if he was working on the terror, he
must have discovered something. Else, why should they have killed him?"

"I'd thought of that," interrupted Norman. "Do you suppose we're headed
for the same fate as those other ships? We're carrying radium."

"Nonsense," grunted the doctor. "That agent might have been on the
trail of smugglers, anything. Oh, here comes the Captain."

The Captain, a brusque little man who appeared to be in his fifties,
glanced briefly at the body, said: "Who found it?"

Several passengers pointed out Norman.

"I?" said Norman in haste. "I didn't find it. That--that...." He flung
his eyes over the crowd in search of the fat woman, but she had been
carried to her stateroom. He took a breath, began again. "Miss Scott
and I were going to lunch. We were right behind an Earth woman. She saw
the body first."

"You didn't see anyone enter or leave this passage?"

He emphatically shook his head.

"Steward!" called the Captain, turning away. "Get this body into the
meat box."

"Yes, sir." The steward started to go for help.

"Here! Wait a moment. Clear these people out first."

Norman said to Jennifer, "Let's get out." More than anything else, he
wanted to get away from that body. His voyage to Ganymede was turning
out even worse than he had anticipated.

"Not you," said the Captain. "I want to see your book."

Norman could feel the eyes of everyone on him as he handed it over.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Captain examined it, looked up into the pale scholarly face of
the young man. "No," he said with a trace of contempt, "I suppose you
wouldn't have seen anything at that. You may go."

Norman flushed, took his book back. A surge of anger welled up inside
him at the Captain's tone. He was of a mind to register a complaint
with the company.

"I said you may go," repeated the Captain.

"I am waiting for Miss Scott," replied Norman stiffly.

For a moment the two men's wills clashed. It was the Captain, oddly
enough, who yielded. "Very well. May I see your book, Miss Scott?"

Norman felt a sense of triumph as Jennifer passed over her book.

The Captain accepted it, scanned it briefly. "I see your father is
Commandant Scott. I know him very well. A capable man. We need more
administrators like him in the Colonies. But Earth doesn't produce the
men she used to. If it weren't for the Outlanders, the Empire would
fall to pieces. Decadency; that's the sickness of Earth. Be sure to
convey my respects to your father, Miss Scott."

Jennifer smiled, said, "Thank you, Captain."

"I believe you were with Mr. Saint Clair. Did you seen anyone ahead of
you?"

Jennifer frowned in an effort to remember, shook her curly black hair.
"I'm sorry, Captain."

Before he could reply an officer pushed his way into the group. Norman
recognized him as the colonel in charge of the Armed Guard.

"Hello, Captain," said the Colonel. "One of my men just informed me
of the murder." He glanced at the body. "I suggest you close off this
corridor and take these people's names."

"I've done both," said the Captain tartly. "Since you've arrived,
Colonel, I can leave the investigation in your hands. Meanwhile this
must be reported to the T.I.S. You'll excuse me, Colonel?"

The Colonel nodded indifferently. He was a small wiry man with cold
blue eyes. He requested all three of their books, examined them
minutely while the doctor fidgeted and Norman sweated to get away from
that still form on the deck. After questioning them again, he took
their names in a notebook, dismissed them.

Once in the lounge, Norman lit a cigarette, inhaled it gratefully.

The doctor said, "I prescribe a stiff shot of brandy."

Norman didn't drink. He believed alcohol impaired thinking.
Nevertheless, he seconded the doctor's suggestion. Spirits, he decided
reluctantly, had their uses.

The murder had riven a crack in Norman Saint Clair's complacency. His
safe world was crumbling about his ears. He recalled the Captain's
charge that Earth was decadent. It was true that more and more
Outlanders, men born in the colonies, were grasping power. Could it be
possible that in his academic isolation he had missed the real pulse of
life.

Jennifer said, "Whatever are you thinking, Norman? Your eyes look as if
you were miles away."

With a start, he realized that the pair of them were waiting for him.
"I? I was thinking that--that. Oh bother thinking. Let's get that
drink."


                                  II

Aboard the _Jupiter_ day and night were artificially simulated. Norman
Saint Clair awoke the next morning with a sense of disaster strong in
his mind. He rose, stretched, went to the quartzite port. They had
picked up their escort during the night.

The Terrestian warship paced the _Jupiter_ silently, grimly. She wasn't
half the size of the colossal liner, but her speed he knew to be
fabulous, and he could count a hundred gun ports along her starboard
side alone. A lean gray wolf of space, he thought. Nothing could stand
up against that brutally efficient machine of destruction. Reassured,
he began to dress himself carefully.

In the dining saloon he discovered the girl, Jennifer Scott. She was
seated at a table having breakfast with a young man to whom Norman took
an immediate dislike although it was possible to see only the back
of his head. He felt surprised at himself. He wasn't in the habit of
making snap judgements like that.

Jennifer saw him, waved gaily, beckoned him to come sit with them. The
informality of the Outlanders never ceased to amaze him. They brushed
aside conventions like cobwebs.

He said, "Good morning, Miss Scott. I trust yesterday's tragedy didn't
disturb your rest too much." There was a touch of resentment in his
tone. The girl appeared too buoyant, too vivacious. His own sleep had
been wretched.

The girl's blue eyes were bright. She said, "Not too much;" and
introduced her companion. "This is Mr. Vermeer. He's an agent of the
Venusian Export Lines."

Norman observed Vermeer coolly, saw a black-eyed, black-haired man
whose gray coat fit his chunky shoulders too tightly. There was a white
scar on his upper lip, another above his right eyebrow. Mr. Vermeer
extended his hand without enthusiasm, said, "Sit down, Saint Clair."

Norman eased his lank frame into the chair. "Have they caught the
murderer, yet?"

Jennifer shook her head.

"Not likely," observed Vermeer with scorn. "There was a time when it
would have been suicide to kill a T.I.S. agent. From Mercury to Pluto
Earthmen were known as the scourge of the Universe. But now. Pah!
They've grown fat and spoiled. The Empire isn't able to protect its own
ships anymore."

Norman fidgeted angrily. "You're an Earthman, yourself," he accused.

"Not I," denied Vermeer. "I'm of Terrestial descent, but I was born on
Venus. I'm an Outlander."

A waiter approached, took Norman's order.

Jennifer leaned forward. "Mr. Vermeer, do you believe this murder has
any connection with the terror?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. I'd say the T.I.S. agent had stumbled across
some information which made it necessary that he be silenced."

Although that was Norman's idea he said perversely, "I think you're
making a mountain out of a molehill. The agent was probably on the
track of smugglers."

Jennifer opened her blue eyes in surprise. Vermeer shrugged, turned
to the girl, said: "They're giving a dance tonight. Would you be my
partner?"

The girl hesitated, glanced roguishly at Norman who sat stiff-faced.
"Thank you, Mr. Vermeer, but Mr. Saint Clair has already asked me."

Norman's mouth fell open. He had wanted to ask her but had hesitated
because he didn't know her well enough. His heart leaped now with
pleasure.

Vermeer glanced at Norman sourly, excused himself, left the table.

When he was out of earshot, the girl said, "There's something about
that man that doesn't ring true. I hope you don't mind me using you as
an excuse, Norman. You don't have to take me."

"Not take you?" he echoed. "Of course, I'm going to take you. You can't
very well refuse now." He grinned triumphantly, feeling something of a
devil. He rather liked the sensation.

The girl was suddenly serious. "Have you heard the news?"

"News? I haven't heard any news."

"It just came over the radio. The _Comet_ disappeared three days out
from Ganymede. She was escorted by a corvette of the Martian Navy, too."

The _Comet_, he knew, was a semi-passenger freighter of Martian
register. "But the corvette?" he echoed blankly, feeling suddenly a bit
frightened and confused.

"It vanished too." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that. But before
they disappeared, they reported three flashes in space dead ahead. Then
their signals stopped."

He opened his mouth.

"Wait," said the girl. "You haven't heard it all. The Observatory on
Ganymede had them in sight all the time. A short while after the ship's
radio messages stopped coming through, they noticed that the _Comet_
was disappearing just as if she were disintegrating. The disintegration
started at the stern and slowly worked forward until the ship was
completely gone." She shuddered. "When I heard the news coming over the
caster it reminded me of an old, old story of a grinning cheshire cat.
The cat disappeared tail first until even the grin was gone."

"Alice in Wonderland," said Norman mechanically. "That was written by
Lewis Carroll, a famous writer of antiquity."

"What do you think it is?"

He shook his head. "I'm no scientist, Jennifer. It sounds like atomic
disintegration."

"But why?"

Again he shook his head. His food, he realized, was growing cold. He
began to eat mechanically. He thought that if he ever reached Ganymede,
he'd never venture into space again.

The girl said, "Vermeer was right about one thing. The Empire's
crumbling. This never could have happened a hundred years ago." She
hesitated, then added with a rush, "I wasn't going to tell you because
I'm not sure, but Mr. Vermeer's stateroom is next to mine. When I first
came aboard and was putting away my things, I noticed a man leave his
stateroom. Norman, it wasn't Mr. Vermeer. I think it was that T.I.S.
agent who was murdered."

"By Jupiter," ejaculated Norman, "do you think the T.I.S. man could
have been making an investigation of this Vermeer?"

She nodded her head, wide-eyed.

"Have you told the Captain?"

"No," said the girl.

"But he should know."

She shook her head. "He'd think I was imagining things. The passengers
have been reporting all sorts of nonsense since the murder. If I could
only be sure." She bit her lip. "Norman, the dance tonight. He'll be
there. We could search his room."

He looked at her aghast. "Search his room? Me? Suppose he walked in on
us?"

"We could pretend we'd entered by mistake. My cabin is next door."

He shook his head. "I still think it should be reported to the Captain."

"He'd never believe me."

He glanced at her helplessly. "But...."

Jennifer rose. "I'll meet you at the dance tonight. We'll make sure
he's there first."

He nodded unhappily. When the girl had left he pushed back his plate,
called the waiter. "You can take this away," he said. "I've lost my
appetite."


                                  III

In spite of all the preparations by the Stewards Department, the dance
was not a success. Everyone drank too much, tried too hard to be gay,
but the shadow of the terror hung over the little floating world
turning the celebrations tawdry.

Norman and Jennifer were seated at a table against the bulkhead. The
orchestra was playing _My Man's Done Left For Outer Space_ while a
Martian girl gyrated in a barbaric dance which stirred Norman's pulse
and shocked him beyond measure.

"There he is," said Jennifer in a low excited voice. "There's Vermeer
now."

The Venusian Export Lines man had just entered the saloon. Norman saw
him glance casually about the hall, saunter across to the bar.

"Come on," said Jennifer. "Let's get started."

Norman gulped down a last drink of the brandy, rose from the table.
Jennifer took his arm. He could feel her grip tighten. They passed out
a side entrance, down a companionway to the deck where Vermeer's cabin
was located. Before the door of 312 they paused.

"This is it," said Jennifer in a whisper.

Norman gingerly tried the door. "It's locked," he said with relief.
"Let's get back to the dance."

"Here," said Jennifer fumbling in her purse. "Try this. It's a pass
key."

He stared at the little sliver of metal in consternation. "Where did
you get it?"

"I bribed the steward."

Norman took the key. The door opened easily. Vermeer's stateroom
contained a bunk, desk, two chairs, and a dresser. A spot reading light
threw a round beam from the overhead to the desk. A door on the right
opened into the bath. There was a second door on the left, but it was
closed.

He drew Jennifer inside, closed and locked the door.

"Look through the desk," he commanded. He went to the closed door,
opened it, revealing a closet.

"Look," he said. "What's this?"

Jennifer glanced up from the desk. Norman had pulled out a single piece
garment with shoes, gloves and helmet attached like a diver's suit. It
was made of a very sheer translucent material resembling oiled silk. A
zipper-like fastener ran up the back. The suit was pale green, even the
eye pieces being the same color.

Jennifer shook her head. "I never saw anything like it before. It isn't
heavy enough for a space suit. What do you suppose it could be?"

Norman shrugged, put it back on the rack. He went through the pockets
of the remaining clothes, found exactly nothing. From the closet, he
turned to the built-in dresser. Again his search was fruitless.

"Have you found anything, Jennifer?"

The girl shook her head. "Not a thing. Except papers from the Venusian
Export Lines. He seems to be an accredited agent of theirs after all."

"Let's get out of here," said Norman uneasily.

Jennifer clutched his arm. "Listen!"

He heard the grate of a key in the lock. He and the girl looked at each
other in consternation.

"Quick," said Norman, struck by an inspiration. He embraced Jennifer
clumsily. "Put your arms around me! Hurry! Now kiss me!"

Bewildered but obedient, she held up her lips. Norman kissed her. He
held it until a discreet cough behind them caused them to spring apart
guiltily.

Mr. Vermeer was regarding them from the open door, his black eyes
sardonic. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but you've got the wrong
cabin."

"I know it," said Jennifer in confusion. "My stateroom's next door.
Silly mistake, isn't it?"

"Sorry, Vermeer," apologized Norman hastily. "Come on, Jennifer." He
led the girl into the corridor. Vermeer closed and locked the door
after them.

Jennifer unlocked her cabin, said, "Come in."

Norman limply followed her inside, collapsed on a chair.

"You were wonderful," she cried. "I never would have thought of that.
It explained everything, even our confusion."

He began to feel rather proud of himself. He glanced about the girl's
room. It was similar to Vermeer's except that it was not so tidy. Gauzy
white undergarments of finest spun microweb lay on the chairs. He
recognized a tiny vial of Venusian perfume on the dresser surrounded
by a litter of brushes, mirrors, combs. There was a picture of a tall
elderly man in a uniform.

"That's papa," exclaimed Jennifer.

"I wish I knew what that suit was used for," said Norman thoughtfully.
"I've never seen anything like it before."

"You know," said the girl seating herself on the edge of the bed,
"you're not like most Earth men. You're not stodgy and patronizing.
You're cute."

He felt ridiculously pleased. He was convinced that he'd never met a
more intelligent, a more charming, a more beautiful girl than Jennifer
Scott. He said, "I've had to revise all my opinions of Outlanders since
I met you."

Jennifer laughed, jumped to her feet. Stooping over, she kissed him
lightly. "That's for a very pretty compliment. Now let's get back to
the dance before I lose all my maidenly modesty."


                                  IV

Beyond the orbit of Mars a tension gripped the passengers of the
_Jupiter_. The killer of the T.I.S. agent remained at large, and the
passengers were beginning to regard each other suspiciously. They were
now in the zone where the terror operated. The battle ship had edged in
closer. Constant radio contact was maintained between the two vessels.

Norman Saint Clair and Jennifer were on the observation deck in
the forepeak. The quartzite dome arched flatly overhead. The chill
immensity of space crowded all around them, black infinity pricked with
a million blazing suns. It was Norman's first visit to the observation
deck. Jennifer had brought him up.

"There's Jupiter," she exclaimed pointing to a large bright star dead
ahead. Norman gazed at it, fascinated.

The lookout, a lean spaceman, stirred restlessly, then stiffened.
Norman followed his gaze, saw three brief pin pricks of light stab out
of the void.

"Look!" He clutched Jennifer's shoulder, but she had seen the flashes
already.

The lookout grabbed the phone, said, "Observation deck reporting, sir.
Three flashes two points on the port bow. Yes sir. Two points on the
port bow." He hung up the phone.

Norman and Jennifer exchanged glances.

Jennifer said, "The _Comet_ reported three flashes before she
disappeared. It must be a signal?"

Overhead the general alarm rang furiously. A file of Armed Guards
poured onto the observation deck, took up their posts. Norman pointed
to the battle ship. Its guns were run out like bared fangs.

"_Attention!_" blared a voice over the public address system. "_All
passengers return immediately to their staterooms. Attention! All
passengers return immediately to their staterooms._"

"Come on," urged Norman. "We'd better go below."

"Do you mind if I stay with you?" asked Jennifer.

"Of course not. I wouldn't leave you alone, anyway."

They descended the companionway to their deck, entered Norman's
stateroom. Through his port he could still observe the warship pacing
them noiselessly.

He padded back and forth across the fiberon carpet. "I wish I had a
dart gun, anything. I feel so helpless." He went to the door, opened it
a crack, peered out. "Jupiter!" he breathed.

"What is it?" cried Jennifer, starting up from her chair.

"Not so loud," he cautioned. "Come here."

The girl sprang lithely across the deck. On tiptoe, her body pressed
against his, she stared over his shoulder through the inch wide crack.

A strange figure stood back to them at the turn in the corridor, a man
clad in loose green coveralls with helmet, gloves and boots attached so
that no part of his figure was exposed.

"Vermeer!" breathed Jennifer. "He's put on the suit we saw in his
closet."

Vermeer remained motionless, half crouched at the end of the hall as
if waiting for some signal. A poisoned dart gun was buckled around his
waist.

Norman eased the door shut, not allowing it to click, faced Jennifer.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know. But I think we should have reported that suit to the
Captain."

Jennifer sank to the edge of the bed. He looked at her, thought again,
how striking was the contrast between blue eyes and black hair. He felt
dizzy, said, "Jennifer, do you notice anything?"

"I feel faint!" she gasped.

A numbing sensation spread through his limbs. The room tilted crazily,
darkened. He cried, "Jennifer!" and fell forward limply on his face. He
wondered vaguely, just before consciousness left him, if he were being
disintegrated. Then the blackness of infinite space engulfed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Norman Saint Clair returned to consciousness, he was still lying
face down on the green fiberon carpet. He groped to his feet, swayed
groggily. He glanced at the bed. Jennifer was gone.

Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs, he staggered to the door.
It was locked. He was a prisoner in his own room.

Still something was missing, something intangible. Then he heard the
silence. It screamed at him. The soft overtones of the motors were
dead. The engines had been stopped.

He sprang to his port hole, glanced out. The bulk of the battle ship
floated a little above the wounded _Jupiter_. His eyes opened wide
in consternation. Half of the warship appeared to have been sheared
off as if by a giant cleaver. Even as he watched she was slowly
disintegrating.

Then he made out dozens of figures swarming over the hull like ants.
They were men in space suits, he realized, and they were spraying the
battle spacer with a film which no sooner solidified than it became
invisible, hiding ship and all. A light absorbent matter, he guessed.

The warship was not disintegrating. She was being coated with a film
which absorbed all the light rays and so rendered it invisible. That
was the answer to the strange disappearance of the _Comet_ and her
escort. He looked closer, realized that the invisible stern of the
warship was blocking out a patch of stars.

Above the battleship he saw a port open in space and from nowhere a two
man tender was launched into the void. It was uncanny. Then he realized
he was looking at the ship of the terror, invisible of course. That was
how they had approached their prey without being detected. It was one
chance in a million that anyone would notice the momentary blotting out
of a star.

"Pirates," he thought. The word was archaic. It had almost disappeared
from the vocabulary. He shuddered. They must have approached unseen,
bathed the two ships in a ray which knocked everyone unconscious. The
vaunted warship, the pride of the Empire, had been taken without firing
a shot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vermeer, he thought. Of course, they would need a man aboard to shut
down the engines, bring the _Jupiter_ to a stop so they could board
her. Vermeer's odd suit must have protected him from the effects of the
paralysis ray.

He crossed to his bunk, sat down. He felt strangely indifferent to his
own fate, but Jennifer! He clenched his hands until the nails bit into
his palms. What were the beasts doing with Jennifer?

Abruptly the door opened. Norman sprang to his feet, saw a strange
figure blocking the entrance.

It was a man dressed from head to foot in black. Black trousers were
tucked into black boots. Blouse and helmet, all a somber black. His
eyes though, were blue, his face clean shaven. He had a dart gun in his
hand.

"Come along." He motioned with the dart gun. "You're wanted above." He
stepped back, indicated that Norman should precede him.

They went silently along the corridor, the pirate collecting more
men from the staterooms on either side. By the time they reached the
companionway he was herding ahead of him quite a number of frightened
prisoners.

"What are they going to do with us?" asked a fat man beside Norman.

They had reached the companionway.

"Up!" said their guard.

They mounted the stair, came out into the dining saloon.

A scene of wildest disorder burst upon Norman's shocked gaze. A throng
of black clad pirates moved among the passengers who had been routed
from all parts of the ship. The missing women, he saw, were huddled
in a frightened group at the opposite end of the hall. They had been
brought to the saloon in whatever state of undress the ray had caught
them; in evening dress, scant undergarments, in gowns and shorts, and
one frightened girl, clutching a large bath towel about herself.

[Illustration: _The passengers of the captured ship had been brought to
the saloon in whatever state of undress the ray had caught them._]

Norman was pushed into the group of men. His eyes, though, kept
searching for Jennifer. With a sigh of relief, he discovered her at the
same time she found him. She waved rather forlornly, and Norman almost
dislocated his shoulder waving back.

The fat man said, "Pirates! The effrontery of those rogues. When the
Terrestial Navy locates their lair, they'll blast them to atoms."

Norman recognized Dr. Pequod at his elbow. The doctor was clad nattily
in the hair on his chest and a flaming pair of shorts.

"It's not so simple as that," the doctor answered the fat man. "You
fail to realize the size of the Universe. Nine tenths of it remains
unexplored, unmapped. And how will the Terrestial Navy trail an
invisible enemy?"

The fat man blew himself up, said, "The resources of the Empire are
unlimited."

"Sounds good," agreed the doctor; "but the Empire these days is living
on its reputation."

A crowd of the frightened passengers were gathered about the two men.

"And I've a notion," the doctor went on, "that this is more than
piracy. The Empire is crumbling. Some faction may be nibbling at its
edges, growing strong from its life blood, the trading lines. Has it
occurred to you that with every ship lost, the pirates are that much
stronger and we that much weaker!"

"Nonsense," retorted the fat man, but his tone had lost conviction.

"Break it up," commanded one of their guards. "Silence!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The main entrance to the saloon had swung open, admitting the strangest
creature that Norman had yet seen. It appeared human, but obviously it
was not from any known planet. Short and squat, with yellow wrinkled
skin, it looked more like a rutabaga than a man. The pirates snapped to
attention.

"Jupiter," breathed Norman. "Is it a man?"

Dr. Pequod scratched the shag on his chest. "Odd specimen. Wonder what
corner of the Universe it hails from?"

The creature regarded the prisoners without any expression whatever on
its parchment-like face. It was clothed in a harness which gave no clue
to its sex. With a scrawny hand it beckoned the renegade Earthman who
had been directing the operations, said something in a voice too low
for anyone to overhear.

The Earthman nodded, turned to the captives. "Every able bodied man
between the ages of nineteen and forty, step out," he shouted. As no
one moved, he frowned, said, "In any case your books will be examined
and your correct age determined. Get a move on!"

Norman accompanied by perhaps thirty percent of the male passengers
advanced into the center of the room.

"That's far enough," advised the creature in a high reedy voice.

They halted uncertainly.

"Gentlemen," said the leader, for such the creature seemed to be;
"I am here to offer you a choice of two courses. We are coming into
possession of more vessels than we have recruits to man. Consequently,
it is our custom to offer all able bodied humans between the ages of
nineteen and forty the opportunity to join us. As a further inducement,
the new recruits will share equally in the proceeds of this venture
with the regular crew." He paused. Not a flicker of expression had
marred the creature's face.

Norman Saint Clair's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. A forlorn hope
presented itself, if only he had the courage to grasp it.

"Now, gentlemen," the turnip shaped leader continued; "it would only be
fair to give you the opposite side of the coin. You are bound to us for
life; not by anything so puerile as an oath. In fact you are at liberty
to escape any time," he paused, "if you can.

"You will be given good quarters and food. Money for any pleasure or
vices you wish to indulge will come as your share of the prizes taken.
The alternative, gentlemen, which I mentioned at first, is slavery.
We also need men and women to work our factories, maintain our living
quarters. The fighting men do not work."

With a faint bow the creature turned on his heel, disappeared as
suddenly as he had come.

A low buzz sprang up in the hall as everyone turned to his neighbors,
questions tumbling from their lips. The pirates dropped their stiff
pose, returned to their duties. The men grouped in the center of the
floor shifted uneasily.

Norman bit his lip, frowned. He might be able to protect Jennifer as
one of the pirates and eventually escape. He wished he could talk it
over with her.

"All right," said the burly renegade. "How many of you are
volunteering? Step forward."

Norman Saint Clair stepped out of the group. He did it like a man
plunges off a high dive, quickly before his nerve departed. Nine of his
fellow passengers straggled beside him.

"Is that all, gentlemen?" inquired the pirate. "This is your last
chance. Either piracy or slavery. And let me warn you, slaves don't
live an easy life."

Twenty-three more men straggled uncertainly around Norman.

"All right," said the pirate. "The rest of you can return to your
fellows. Baldy! Hey, Baldy!"

A second Earth man strolled across the deck. He was short, older than
most of the freebooters.

"Take these men aboard the _Rocket_," the first renegade directed. "You
know what to do with them."

Baldy grinned, saluted. "Come along, you buccaneers," he commanded.

Norman caught Jennifer's eyes. She was staring at him in astonishment.
He waved, trying to convey reassurance across the space that separated
them. Slowly a flush burned up from the girl's throat. With a look of
scorn, Jennifer deliberately turned her back.

       *       *       *       *       *

Norman gaped after her in consternation. He had expected her to realize
that he was joining the pirates in order to help her. He certainly had
no ambition to go gallivanting through space capturing space ships.

"Hey you," said Baldy, "move along there."

Norman jumped, trailed after the new recruits. He would help the
girl in spite of herself. He visualized himself standing off a dozen
black clad figures while Jennifer boarded a small space craft. Then
he tumbled in beside her, wrenched the controls wide open: "You're
wounded," Jennifer cried. "Norman, I didn't understand. Can you forgive
me?"

"Hey," growled the man in front. "For God's sake, quit tramping on my
heels."

They had arrived at the air lock, he saw with a start. Baldy opened the
port, revealing a small space tender. They wedged themselves inside.
With the pirate at the controls the craft launched into space, speeding
toward a shadow which blocked off half the heavens.

A port snapped open in space dead ahead. Norman blinked his eyes.
Although he knew this was the pirate's ship coated with the light
absorbent film the sight of an air lock appearing suddenly where
nothing had been before was disconcerting. The tender eased into the
lock, settled to the deck.

"Here we are, you volunteers," observed Baldy.

They passed from the lock through a corridor into a large square room.
Half of the room was railed off. Behind the railing a man in a black
uniform sat working at a desk. It reminded Norman of an employment
bureau. The rest of the space was filled with benches set in evenly
spaced rows.

"Sit down," said Baldy.

The recruits seated themselves nervously.

"You," said Baldy, indicating Norman. "Go up to the desk."

Norman rose, approached the middle aged pirate who sported a spade
beard and dark brown eyes.

"Your book," he said.

Norman handed it over.

"Sit down," said the man. "Make yourself comfortable.

"You know, since the T.I.S. has inaugurated these books our jobs
have been greatly simplified." He was making rapid notations on a
form. "Lecturer on Ancient History," he read aloud. "Degrees in
twentieth century literature." He looked up at Norman, smiled. "I'm an
anthropologist myself. Was with an expedition to study the aborigines
of Jupiter when the pirates captured our ship." He closed Norman's
book, dropped it in a drawer.

"Now this is serious," he began in a different, somehow ominous tone.
"What I am about to tell you is of the gravest importance. Every
recruit is warned once and once only, so take heed.

"When you leave here you will be subjected to a machine which registers
your personal wave length, particularly the subtle peculiarly
individualistic vibrations emanating from your brain. Those vibrations
will be impressed on an indestructible duraloid cylinder and sent to
the control station in Behrl. The Dohlmites have devised a machine
which can broadcast your death at any time, no matter where you may be.
It operates through the wave length of your individual vibration."

"Dohlmites?" echoed Norman.

"Yes, Dohlmites. You saw one aboard your ship. The man who recruited
you. They are a race so alien to mankind that we have nothing in
common. The Dohlmites are the real masters here. All of us, fighting
men and slaves, have had our vibrations recorded and are subject to
instant death at the first sign of treachery.

"The Dohlmites can snuff your life out by simply turning a dial. Don't
think I exaggerate. I have seen healthy men drop dead on the streets of
Behrl. I have seen the lives of an entire rebellious crew extinguished
like candles."

"But who are these Dohlmites. What are they?" Norman's brain was
whirling.

"I think," replied the ex-anthropologist, "that they are plants."

"Plants!" ejaculated Norman Saint Clair.

"Yes, plants. Flora, not fauna. Their young are green in color. As they
mature, ripen, I suppose is the correct word, they turn yellow. When
they cut themselves, they bleed green. Sap, don't you know."

"This Behrl, where is it?" asked Norman.

"In Neptune. The planet is hollow. Just a shell. The city of Behrl is
on the inside of Neptune." The ex-anthropologist sat back. "Whatever
you do, don't try to escape. Even if you get away, when the Dohlmites
missed you they would simply extinguish you wherever you were."

Norman's breath went out of him like air from a burst sack. The full
implication of what the ex-anthropologist had revealed broke in his
mind like an exploding shell. Gone were his hopes of escaping, and
taking Jennifer with him. He was trapped. The net of the Dohlmites was
perfect and he and the girl were caught in its meshes. Certainly, he
thought bitterly, no human intelligence could have conceived such a
devilish plan.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the desk of the ex-anthropologist Norman was led into a small
closet where the rays of the fatal machine bathed him from head to
foot. Beyond the partition something click-clicked at irregular
intervals like a beetle and an ominous scratching recorded his
vibratory rate indelibly on the duraloid cylinder.

The machine stopped. The door of the closet opened.

Norman discovered a thick shouldered Martian grinning at him from the
entrance.

"That's enough," said the Martian in the sibilant accent of the red
planet. "You've been detailed to my squad."

As Norman slipped from the closet another recruit took his place. He
noticed a low humming.

"The engines?" he asked.

"Yes," agreed the Martian. "We're off. Your ships have been coated with
the light blanket."

"Where are they?"

"They're following us. We've put prize crews aboard. It was a rich
haul. Radium." He rubbed his hands together, laughed as if in
anticipation of the orgy he would be able to indulge in with his share.

Norman winced. The Martians as a rule were a cosmopolitan and cultured
people.

"Don't judge too harshly," said the Martian as if reading the young
man's thoughts. "You'll look forward to the brief time between voyages,
too. But I'm forgetting. My name's Koal. I was a space pilot before I
was captured."

Norman introduced himself.

The Martian grinned, shook hands. "Come along, Earth man, and get your
issue. Then I'll show you your quarters."

At length they came to a chamber deep within the bowels of the ship.
A counter ran along the back wall. A wizened yellow eyed Mercurian
took Norman's measure, piled four changes of the somber uniform on the
counter. With quick cat-like movements he added a helmet and boots,
slug gun and Dixon Ray rifle. Wide-eyed, Norman watched the pile grow.
It was a very complete outfit by the time the Mercurian paused.

Staggering under the load Norman and Koal ascended to the sleeping
quarters, paused before a stateroom.

"This is your cabin," said Koal unlocking the door. "Slaves keep it
cleaned." They went inside. "If you let me know the number of your
stateroom aboard the _Jupiter_, I'll see that you get your personal
belongings when we arrive in Behrl."

The cabin, Norman observed, was similar to the one he had left. He set
about stowing away his gear.

"You have a great deal to learn," said Koal and sat down on the edge of
the bunk. "The Dohlmites regard us as dangerous animals. But as long as
we obey orders we are left alone."

"What happens to the prisoners?" Norman asked suddenly.

"They're sold from the block in the slave market."

"You mean anyone can buy a slave?"

"Certainly. An agent of the Dohlmites bids a flat hundred notes for
each captive. If any of them strike your fancy you only need bid above
the hundred notes. Of course when a pretty wench is auctioned off the
bidding among the men gets rather wild."

"Jupiter!" breathed Norman pausing in the act of pulling on his blouse.
"Was that right, what the Dohlmite said about the recruits sharing
equally with the crew in the loot."

The Martian nodded. "Half goes to the Dohlmites. The remaining half is
divided among the crew. That includes the cargo, whatever the captives
bring on the open market and salvage value of the ships themselves."

Norman grinned. His first purchase with his share of the prize money
would be Jennifer Scott.

The Martian pointed to a silver insignia, a small rocket ship of
ancient design pinned to the right breast of Norman's blouse. "That,"
he informed the young man, "is the insignia of your clan. It is
important. Never take it off. All the men aboard the _Rocket_ belong to
that clan."

"Why?" asked Norman, puzzled.

The Martian sighed. "There is no law in Behrl, so long as we don't
interfere with the administration of the city. In the Human Colony
anarchy reigns supreme. For our own protection, we've banded together."

The Martian rose from the bunk, went to the door. "I'll leave you to
get settled now. We eat at fourteen-hundred." He opened the door,
paused, turned back. "One thing more. Forget about escaping. Dismiss
it from your mind. Most of us joined with the same intention that you
have. But it's impossible. There was a Martian, a very good friend of
mine, who tried it. He stole a space tender. He got all the way to Mars
before he was missed. In sight of the quarters of the imperial guard
he dropped dead." He paused, said, "I'll see you at fourteen-hundred,"
pulled the door shut after him.

Norman Saint Clair sank down on his bunk. Somewhere, there must be
a weak link in the Dohlmites armor. He wished he had specialized
in botany instead of ancient history. Botany, he thought wildly,
horticulture, perhaps there lay the clue.


                                   V

During the ensuing days Norman Saint Clair became acquainted with the
other members of Koal's squad. There were nine. Two were Martians, one
a Venusian, the rest Earthmen. All of them had been captured by the
Dohlmites and had chosen piracy to slavery.

While yet a day from Neptune, everyone began feverishly to pack their
gear in anticipation of the landing. Word was circulated when they
were passing through the crust. Norman and Koal hurried to the corridor
before the port, found it jammed with men. The huge ship settled with a
slight jar. They had landed.

"Home," said Koal.

With a jolt Norman realized that this was home for him, too. The
massive entrance slid aside. The men poured out. Caught in the stream,
he and Koal were carried to the runway and down to the floor of the
spaceport. He looked around curiously.

The road led between two empty troughs. At least he thought they were
empty, until he realized he couldn't see beyond them. Invisible ships
lay in the troughs. Overhead a large pinkish sun flamed unnaturally.

"Come along," urged Koal. "You've the rest of your life for sight
seeing." He led Norman outside the yards to a massive building.

"What's this?" asked the young man as they passed through the doors.

"Emigration. Here's where you'll be assigned living quarters."

A Mercurian ensconced behind a grill like a bank teller took his name
and ship, handed him a slip of paper. On it was printed F12-D234. He
looked at it blankly.

The Martian laughed, explained: "F12 is the building. Everyone from the
_Rocket_ lodges in the same building. D is the floor, two-thirty-four
your apartment number."

"Oh."

The Martian laughed again, said "Come along. You'll get the hang of
things soon enough."

They returned to the street, entered a many storied garage. Here Norman
saw hundreds of surface cars parked row upon row. A ramp led up to the
next level.

"This is where our cars are stored while we're on a voyage. We aren't
allowed flying vehicles. Only the Dohlmites can use them."

The Martian went to one of the cars, held open the door. "You'll want
to buy one of these as soon as we're paid. The slaves manufacture them
very cheaply."

Climbing in beside Norman, Koal pressed a button. The diminutive atomic
motor burst into life. They rolled out onto the streets of Behrl.

"When will they auction off the prisoners?" asked Norman as the Martian
guided the surface car through the traffic.

"Not for a day or so. You'll be notified. This is the manufacturing
district."

One factory after another flowed past. Off to their left Norman
observed a hill towering above the rest of the city. Its slopes were
covered with balconied buildings rank with trees and flowers and shrubs
like the fabled hanging gardens of Babylon.

"What's that?" He nudged the Martian.

"That's where the Dohlmites live. Whatever you do, don't go near
that quarter of the city. A force wall surrounds it which is instant
death if you come in contact with it. Their laboratories, the control
station, the death machine, our wave length cylinders are all there."

In a few moments they had passed through the factory area and into a
district of shops, restaurants, amusement centers.

"Who operates these?" he asked.

"Slaves. The profits go to the Dohlmites. Everything returns to their
pockets."

The streets were crowded with people: barefooted women in short gay
colored tunics, men in loose coveralls.

"Slaves," explained Koal.

The vastness of the plant men's enterprise became apparent as they sped
through the streets.

"Koal," said Norman a little frightened. "When is it going to stop?"

The Martian looked at him grimly, "With the fall of the Empire," he
replied bitterly. "With the enslavement of Mars and Venus and Earth.
The Dohlmites are only a handful, but they plan to lop off the Empire
colony by colony, enslaving the inhabitants just as they have us. Their
ultimate goal is to have the individual wave recording of every human
in the Universe. An Empire of slaves."

"Impossible!" he ejaculated.

"Why? The element of time is of no importance with them. Every ship
they capture gives them more power, more slaves. It gathers force like
a snowball rolling down hill. Before long, nothing can stop them."

       *       *       *       *       *

Norman slumped back in his seat. What the Martian said was true. Unless
the Dohlmites were stopped soon, they would be so strong that nothing
in the Universe could halt their march to Empire.

"Is there a library in Behrl?" he asked the Martian suddenly.

"Yes," replied Koal in surprise. "A very fine one in fact, but no one
uses it."

Norman's next question seemed irrelevant.

"Would the humans revolt if they thought there might be a slim chance
of success?"

"Who would be a slave by choice?" grunted Koal angrily. "They'd rise as
one man at the faintest sort of a chance and at no chance at all." For
a moment, he glared straight down the street, then relaxed, glanced at
Norman seriously.

"Look," he said in a quiet voice that was somehow more impressive. "Do
you realize how hungry I am for the dry chill air of Mars. How hungry
all these exiles are for their home planets? You don't think we've
submitted meekly to the Dohlmites, do you? There have been mutinies and
rebellions a dozen times since I've been here. And everytime the rebels
have dropped dead on the streets, at their guns, in their beds. All of
them. I tell you its impossible."

"Nevertheless," said Norman, "you've told me what I wanted to know."

The shops were behind them, many storied apartment dwellings having
taken their place. With a grunt; the Martian swung the car down an
incline leading to the basement under one of the buildings.

"This is F Twelve," he said, halted the car just inside the gate while
a guard inspected their papers, waved them on.

"For our own protection." Koal nodded toward the guard as he parked the
car. "No one but members of our clan and their households can enter
this apartment building."

They crossed the basement parking area to a lift. Koal pressed a
button. The car descended; the doors opened. He motioned Norman inside.

"Hello, Alicia," Koal greeted the operator, a girl in a short green
tunic gathered in at her slim waist by a belt. He chucked her under the
chin. "Glad to see me back?"

She was from Earth, Norman realized. She was barefooted and around her
ankle was the metal band of the slave.

She said, "Did you bring me anything?"

He snapped his fingers. "How could I have forgotten?" but his grin
belied his words.

The girl cried, "What did you bring me, Koal? Where is it?"

"Not so fast," he admonished. "You haven't met Saint Clair yet. He's a
new recruit."

The girl turned brown eyes on Norman, saw his crisp blond hair and
likeable features, his broad shoulders and flat hips. "Um, um," she
said, "I know. You've brought me him."

Norman flushed hotly. The Martian laughed, reached in his pocket,
pulled out a pair of earrings set with magnificent Venusian pearls.
Norman recollected seeing them grace the ears of a Terranean dowager
aboard the _Jupiter_.

Alicia squealed with delight, hastened to attach the earrings. She shot
the lift upward jubilantly.

At D deck they left the car. Alicia looked at Norman.

"If you're lonesome tonight, I'm off duty at Seventeen-hundred." Before
he could answer the doors slid shut.

"What did you do to her?" growled Koal. "I bring the earrings and she
propositions you."

Norman grinned, preened himself. Alicia, he decided, was a remarkably
pretty girl, intelligent, too.

"Here's your apartment," Koal interrupted his thoughts. They had
stopped before a door which bore the numeral 234 in brass. "I'm
two-forty-eight. If you want anything, step down the hall and knock."
He started off, paused. "Meals are served three times a day in the
dining room on A deck, or you can prepare your own food in your rooms.
I think you'll find everything necessary in the kitchen. If not, call
the steward."

Norman went inside, glanced around curiously. An entrance hall led him
into a sumptuous living-room. A compact kitchen, which did everything
mechanically but digest your food, opened from a dinette. Behind the
front rooms lay three spacious bedrooms, which gave onto a balcony. He
opened the glass doors, passed out into the sunshine.

Building number F12 was on the outskirts of Behrl, and a jungle of
riotous vegetation met his eye. The horizon curved up like a bowl
before disappearing in rosy mists.

Here on the inside of Neptune the sun always hung straight overhead.
A land of high noon, he thought. The sun beat down on his head. He
wondered what kind of phenomenon it was, possibly a ball of liquid fire
slowly burning itself out. The resultant high percentage of carbon
dioxide in the air might account for the evolution of plants into
reasoning creatures rather than mammals.

He returned to the kitchen. The cabinets were stocked with food and he
prepared a cold lunch, ate it hungrily. A feeling of contentment stole
over him.

He returned to the bedrooms, chose the largest one, stripped and
showered and flung himself into the bed. He was immediately asleep.


                                  VI

Sometime later Norman was awakened by a rude hand shaking his shoulder.

Koal was grinning down at him.

"Wake up," said Koal. "You've been dead to the world for thirty-six
hours, and the paymaster's here."

Norman sat up, reached for his trousers, which, to his surprise, were
neatly hung over the back of a chair. Drawing on his clothes, he
went into the kitchen. It had been cleaned, put to rights. Further
exploration revealed that his things from the _Jupiter_ had been
delivered and stowed away in the closet and built-in bureau. Hordes of
people must have trailed in and out of his apartment while he slept. He
decided to prop a chair against the knob the next time he went to bed.

The Martian was watching him, an amused glint in his black eyes. "There
is a bolt on your door, you know," he assured the young man.

A subdued buzzing announced a visitor.

"That's probably the paymaster now," said Koal. He opened the door,
revealing a Mercurian with a black satchel in his hand.

The Mercurian said, "Norman Saint Clair?"

The young man nodded.

"First," said the Mercurian, opening the satchel, "here are your
papers." He handed him a yellow envelope which contained a book similar
to the one the T.I.S. had issued when he left Earth.

"The individual shares from the _Jupiter's_ cargo," the Mercurian
droned on, "plus the Terrestial warship amount to twenty thousand
notes." He handed Norman a sheaf of yellow bills.

"Roughly," Koal interposed, "that is equal in value to twenty-five
thousand Earth notes."

"Twenty-five thousand Earth notes!" gasped Norman. "It's a fortune."

"Sign here, please," said the Mercurian, handing him a ledger.

Norman affixed his name in a daze.

"That doesn't, of course," added the Mercurian, "include your share
from the sale of the slaves. They are to be auctioned off at fourteen
hundred." He snapped shut his satchel, bowed himself out.

"What time is it now?" asked Norman.

"We've time for something to eat before going twelve-hundred."

The slave market resembled an open-air theatre minus the seats. The
same cosmopolitan crowd which Norman had observed on the streets eddied
about the block. He caught sight of a figure clad in civilian clothes.
It was Vermeer, the black-headed Outlander whom he had been sure was
instrumental in the _Jupiter's_ capture.

"Who's that?" he asked the Martian pointing to Vermeer.

"A Venusian Export Lines man. The Dohlmites needed an outlet for much
of the material they captured. They established their own line of
trading ships under a Venusian register because they are so much less
strict on Venus. By the way, keep away from anyone connected with that
company. Never talk sedition in front of them. Those men belong to the
Dohlmites body and soul."

Just then the auctioneer, a lean, yellow-skinned Venusian, moved to the
block. Two men led Dr. Pequod from the wings. The flaming shorts were
gone. He was clad in exactly nothing. The doctor stalked to the block,
glared at the buccaneers who had clustered around him.

"What am I offered?" began the auctioneer. "A little scrawny but sound
and with a heart of gold."

The free booters cackled.

"A hundred notes," said the representative of the Dohlmites dryly. He
was seated on the platform with the auctioneer.

"A hundred notes. I'm offered a hundred notes. Who'll say a hundred
and ten--A hundred and five? Going for a hundred notes. Going. Going.
Gone!" He cracked his gavel down. Dr. Pequod was led back into the
wings.

The next three passengers were purchased by the agent of the Dohlmites
for the standard one hundred notes. There was some lively bidding
for the ex-chef of the _Jupiter_, who was finally knocked down to a
big-bellied pirate. He hauled his prize off with triumph.

Then Norman's heart jumped. The sixth passenger to be led to the block
was Jennifer. She was barefooted, the metal band gleaming about her
naked ankle. A cape had been thrown about her erect shoulders.

[Illustration: _The sixth slave to be led to the auction block was
Jennifer._]

The auctioneer lifted it off. There was nothing but girl underneath.

"Two hundred notes," a voice shouted from Norman's elbow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Norman swung about, recognized Vermeer, the Venusian Export Lines agent.

"Hello," said Vermeer, "I see you've joined us."

Norman nodded shortly. "So it was you who killed the T.I.S. agent. I
suspected it all along."

Vermeer merely smiled. The auctioneer cried, "Two hundred notes. Two
hundred and ten," as another man bid. "Twenty. Twenty. Thirty." The
bidding was growing lively.

"Three hundred," said Vermeer.

"Three hundred and five," Norman echoed.

"Five hundred," said Vermeer without blinking an eye.

Realizing that the two men were bidding against each other the rest
dropped out. The audience seemed to settle back in expectancy. Men had
been known to pay the complete prize money of a venture for a girl.

"Five hundred and five," Norman said in a determined voice.

"Really," said Vermeer; "you're wasting your time. I intend to have
that girl. From one venture you can't possibly have enough money to
outbid me. One thousand notes," he addressed the auctioneer.

"A thousand notes, I'm offered," chanted the auctioneer.

"A thousand notes. Do I hear more?"

Norman bit his lip. It was only too true that Vermeer could outbid him.
With a sudden grim determination he balled his fist, walloped Vermeer
in the temple. All his indignation was behind that blow, all the bone
and gristle of six-foot-two of lecturer on Ancient History. Vermeer
went down and out like a pole axed steer.

"One thousand and one," shouted Norman triumphantly.

For a moment a hush gripped the audience, then the men roared with
laughter. No one liked the Venusian Export Lines men, the pet of the
Dohlmites.

"Going," chanted the auctioneer, "going. Gone! To the impetuous
gentleman with the good right fist!"

For the life of him, Norman couldn't help swaggering a little as he
went up to claim the girl.

The auctioneer tossed Jennifer her cape. She snatched it closely about
herself, leaped down from the platform.

Norman counted out the bills. Jennifer, without glancing at her
purchaser, walked swiftly ahead of him through the throng.

A pirate reached out, clapped him on the shoulder. "She's worth it,"
he chortled. "She's worth it." But Norman was being beset by doubts.
He hadn't liked the steely glint in the girl's blue eyes. It foreboded
trouble. Koal joined them chuckling, as they left the market place.

Once outside Jennifer stopped, swung on Norman. "All right," she said
in a suppressed voice. "You've bought me. But you'll regret it as long
as you live, you, you--renegade!"

Her tone brought him up short. "Of all the ungrateful wenches," he
flared; "you are the prize. I joined the Dohlmites with the express
purpose of rescuing you. I plank down one thousand notes cash to save
you from what in the old days was considered a fate worse than death."

The girl's features registered surprise, incredulity, contrition. She
started to say, "I didn't know," but Norman was thoroughly wound up.

"Of course, I realize that view is no longer entertained by the best
informed people, but if you are so anxious for Vermeer to buy you, I'll
go throw a bucket of water in his face and present you to him with my
compliments."

Indignation swept away all other emotions from the girl's features. "I
think you're horrible," she said and turned her back on him.

Koal suddenly shouted, "Look out, Norman!"

The young man swung around, saw Vermeer boring down on him. The agent
had a poisoned needle gun in his hand. His temple was swollen, his eyes
furious. Scarcely three steps away he swung the needle gun up.

Norman heard the weapon _plop_ softly. At the same instant something
swished between him and the murderous dart gun. Jennifer, he realized,
had pulled the cloak from her bare shoulders, flung it between them.

He snatched the cloak, flipped it over Vermeer's head and shoulders.
His rush bowled the man over backwards. The dart gun dropped to the
pavement. Norman snatched it up just as Vermeer flung the cloak off his
head, sprang to his feet.

"Kill him!" shouted Koal. "Quick!"

Vermeer's face blanched. He turned, began to run back toward the slave
market, bent over, zig-zagging wildly.

Norman brought the dart gun up, then let it fall helplessly at his side.

"I can't do it," he said.

He picked up the cloak, started to return it to Jennifer. His eye lit
on a slender, three-cornered needle stuck halfway through the heavy
material. He pulled the poisoned dart out. One scratch from that deadly
missile would have killed him. The girl's instinctive action had saved
his life. He felt weak.

"I'm sorry for what I said, Jennifer."

"For heaven's sake," she cried; "apologize later, if you must, but give
me back my cloak now."


                                  VII

Once back in his apartment, Norman flung himself down in a chair. They
had stopped on the way home in an establishment which sold the short
tunics proscribed by law for all female slaves and Norman purchased the
girl a complete outfit. She had chosen one of the smaller bedrooms and
was putting her things away now. Koal was lounging on the couch.

"Koal," began Norman, "I've an idea and I'd like your opinion."

"Go ahead," replied the Martian with a chuckle. "You really want me to
agree with you. But if it has to do with escaping, I warn you, I shall
be disagreeable."

Norman grinned, said, "Koal, twentieth century Eire was under the
British crown, but for a long time an underground army had fought the
English Black and Tans. Around Nineteen-twenty they threw off the
English yoke. That party of liberation was known as the Sinn Feiners."

Jennifer wandered back in the room in time to hear the last of Norman's
words. She sat down, listened.

"So?" said Koal.

"So," said Norman. "I think that if a little group of patriots like the
Sinn Feiners could throw off the yoke of the British Empire, we should
be able to turn the tables on the Dohlmites."

"I've seen rebellions before," began Koal stonily.

"I know. But Koal, I'm not proposing any premature mutiny. I do
believe, though, we should band together secretly. If any opportunity
for escape presents itself, we'll be ready for it; not just a disunited
group of clans snapping at each other's throats."

The Martian appeared to waver.

"Koal," Norman went on urgently. "Only one thing stands between us and
freedom. The death broadcasting machine."

"Yes, just that--and a force wall impossible to penetrate."

"What maintains the force wall?" asked Norman.

The Martian shook his head.

"Suppose we succeed in neutralizing it. We'd have a picked body of men
to rush the Dohlmite station, destroy the cylinders."

Koal scratched his head speculatively. He said, "The men would have to
be carefully chosen. It would be suicide should any word of the society
leak to the Dohlmites." He rose, frowned. "Wait a moment," he said and
hurried from the apartment.

"Norman," breathed Jennifer. "Do you think there's any chance?"

"I don't know," he replied, a worried expression on his gaunt features;
"but if I can persuade the men to unite there's hope." He ran his
fingers through his crisp blond hair. "It's more than that, too. We'll
be the only force standing between the Dohlmites and the Empire.
Somehow we've got to destroy them before they destroy us."

The door opened, readmitting Koal attended by a tall, lean, yellow
Venusian. The blue star of the killer cast was tattooed on his
forehead. A Fozoql! Norman was only vaguely familiar with the caste of
mercenaries and assassins. They had the reputation of being loyal and
ferocious and were in high demand by the constantly warring factions on
Venus.

"Norman," said Koal, "this is Acpsahme. He and his brother with their
wives were migrating to Ganymede when they were captured. His brother
was killed by the broadcast machine while trying to escape. His wife
was sold in the slave market to a renegade Earthman. I think I can
vouch for his silence. Explain what you just told me."

Norman shook hands, launched into a passionate appeal for union among
the men. Acpsahme's green eyes glowed.

"Good," he said from time to time, "good. But there must not be too
many, and those must be carefully chosen. The success of the enterprise
depends on secrecy."

Koal leaped to his feet, his broad pale brow furrowed. He strode back
and forth across the thick carpet. "At nineteen-hundred," he said, "I
am going to give a party in my quarters. A small, select party. Only
the men I know best will be invited. Gentlemen, we'll bring the Sinn
Fein Society back to life."

When they had gone, Jennifer looked across at Norman mistily. "You
know," she said in a tender voice, "you really are rather wonderful."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was an oddly assorted group who attended Koal's party at
nineteen-hundred. Of the thirteen men present, there were renegade
Earthmen, outcasts of the Empire, mad dogs feared from Pluto to
Mercury. Another had been a T.I.S. agent before his capture. Pepperell
was the name which Koal gave when he introduced him to Norman.
Pepperell was a bland-faced, heavy-set Earthman with a gullible smile
and a chunk of ice for a heart. The fifth had been a corporation
lawyer. His noble brow and prematurely gray hair give him the benignity
of a saint, but a thief, it had been whispered about on Earth during
his remarkable career, had better ethics and a hungry tiger couldn't be
half so rapacious. There were three Martians, urbane, pleasant-spoken,
and a Venusian. The Venusian, an ex-dictator of a small state, had been
fleeing from his irate people with the treasury, when he was captured.
Norman, Koal, and Acpsahme made up the thirteen. Jennifer was the only
woman present.

The men were gathered in animated groups, drinking, laughing.

"Gentlemen," began Koal, "may I have your attention. What you hear
tonight must be held in the strictest confidence. If any word of this
meeting reaches the Dohlmites, our lives are forfeit."

Pepperell, the T.I.S. agent, raised his eyebrows, said, "What do you
propose to do? Release cut worms among the plant men?"

Jennifer grinned. No one else laughed.

"Thanks," said Pepperell to the girl. "I see we both have the same low
sense of humor."

"This is serious," said Koal. "Norman, will you explain your plan to
these gentlemen."

For the third time Norman delivered his impassioned appeal for union.
"I know," he concluded, "that we haven't any definite means of attack,
but how much greater is our chance of discovering one if we work
together."

"But the danger of betrayal," protested Pepperell. "The more recruits
to this underground army we gain, the more chances we run of admitting
a traitor. No silly oath will hold some man from running to the
Dohlmites in hopes of currying favor."

"True," agreed Acpsahme grimly. "But a committee of execution should be
formed. A committee whose sole duty will be to track down and kill any
informer. Gentlemen, this is no seminar fraternity. If I thought any of
you were proposing to betray us, I'd shoot you down without a qualm."
The blue star tattooed on his forehead lent authority to his quiet
words.

"What powers the Dohlmite's force wall?" inquired Norman suddenly.

The men turned back to him, their eyes serious, intent.

"I've speculated about that," admitted Pepperell. "But no human is
allowed within to learn."

"If it ever failed, and we were organized, we could rush the Dohlmites,
capture the broadcast machine and destroy the cylinders."

"You forget the paralysis ray," observed one of the Martians quietly.

"There's a shield against the ray," Norman countered. "I saw one.
Vermeer had one on when our ship was captured."

"A green suit," smiled the Martian. "But they are issued only to agents
of the Venusian Export Lines."

"We can steal them."

A hungry look had come into the men's eyes as they recalled the past
when they had been free in the Universe. Pepperell smashed his fist
down hard on the buffet.

"I'm with you."

"And I." It was unanimous.

Jennifer squeezed Norman's hand ecstatically.

"A toast," proposed Koal, "to freedom."

The men lifted their glasses, drank. Then, with one accord, they
shattered them on the floor in a very ancient custom, a custom which
hadn't been observed in centuries. Norman's heart swelled at the
significance of the gesture.


                                 VIII

Immediately after the next sleeping period, Norman Saint Clair had
Koal drive him into the shopping district where he purchased one of
the surface cars. It had been agreed at the previous meeting of the
new-born Sinn Fein Society that members should be introduced at small,
apparently harmless parties. A list of possible recruits had been
drawn up and Koal, after directing him to the library, left to set the
machinery running.

The library was a large, well lit building with an imposing entrance
hall. Norman searched the foyer, but could see no one. Apparently the
library was deserted. He crossed the floor, peered over the counter.

There was a couch behind the counter and stretched at full length on
the couch was a girl sound asleep. For a moment Norman continued to
gaze at her in astonishment. Her blond hair spread out on the pillow
like yellow gauze. She had on a rumpled green tunic, and her naked
ankle bore the metal slave band. He coughed discreetly.

The girl sat up, stifled a yawn. "Hello," she said, regarding Norman
with surprised interest. Her eyes were large and gray with black lashes.

"Excuse me, miss," he said doubtfully, "but are you the librarian?"

"My God," exclaimed the girl, "don't tell me you want a book!"

"Why, yes," he replied, uncertainty in his voice. "Isn't this the
library?"

"It's the library, yes. But I've been in this vault for a month now,
and you're the first person who's asked for a book. I'd rather be back
at the factory."

"You used to work in a factory?"

The girl nodded. "Where they make the paralysis ray insulators."

"The green suits?" he ejaculated.

"Yes. They're green. Why?"

"No reason," he replied cautiously. "Do you have any volumes on botany,
horticulture, plant growth, anything at all related to that subject?"

Her gray eyes opened wide. "How long have you been here?"

"Not very long."

"I thought not. Don't you know those subjects are on the index? They're
forbidden. The Dohlmites destroy any such book no sooner than they get
their hands on it. They even destroy anyone who has made a study of it."

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," she replied, "but there isn't a paragraph on plant life in
the library." Her gray eyes brightened. "What about me? You could take
me out. I'm a hell of a sight more fun than those musty books."

He said with a grin, "Do you know anything about plant life?"

"No. But I could show you a thing or two about animal life."

He was tempted. She had worked in the factory where the green
insulation suits were made. She might be able to give the Sinn Feiners
valuable information.

"What time do you get off?"

"Now! Where are you going to take me?"

"But the library," he expostulated.

"Bother the library," she laughed. "No one's used it yet." She jumped
to a sitting position on the counter, swung her legs across, slid off
on his side.

"There. The library's closed for the day."

"What did you do before your capture?"

"I was on the triangle."

He frowned in perplexity. "On the triangle? It sounds uncomfortable."

"Sure. The triangle. Mars, Venus, Earth. Ninety gorgeous gals." She
clasped her hands behind her head, rolled her hips.

"Oh," he said, comprehending at last. "You were on the stage."

"The stage?" she laughed. "It does sound more dignified that way. I
was in the chorus. Man, what I wouldn't give for a glimpse of the Gay
White Way or the Street of Sighs."

Impulsively, Norman decided to trust her. He said, "We're going to
steal a green suit."

"A green suit?" She raised her eyebrows. "What do you want with a green
suit? You look much nicer in the outfit you have on."

"A paralysis ray insulating suit," he explained.

"What!" She clapped her hands to her mouth.

"You said you'd worked in the factory. Do you know where they're
stored?"

She bit her lip. "Yes, in the warehouse behind the plant. But why do
you want one? Don't you know escape's impossible?"

"Improbable," he corrected.

"I knew it. I knew it when you wanted to see the books on botany. Take
me along. I won't ask any questions. Take me along, please."

"We're not ready yet," he replied.

"But you'll take me?" Her gray eyes were pleading.

He nodded, said, "The green suit first, though."

She drew in her breath, "All right, handsome, I'm your woman."

       *       *       *       *       *

At the door to his car Norman paused, said, "I don't even know your
name."

"Call me the Duchess," she laughed.

"I'm Saint Clair, Norman Saint Clair."

Norman got behind the wheel. The Duchess stimulated him. She was a
little earthy perhaps, but clever. He wondered uncomfortably just how
he would explain her to Jennifer, decided not to cross that bridge
until he got there.

At the Duchess's direction, he parked the car in an alley behind the
warehouse where the protective green suits were stored.

"This is it," said the girl.

Norman got out, surveyed the massive stone structure. The windows
were barred like a jail. On the roof he could make out the edges of
shrubbery.

"It looks like there's a roof garden up there," he commented.

"There is," replied the Duchess. "The quarters of the men who work for
the Venusian Export Lines are on the top floors of the warehouse."

Norman frowned. "There doesn't seem to be any way in here. What about
the front?"

"It's guarded night and day."

"What's that building?" He pointed to the structure adjacent to the
warehouse. The two roofs were almost on a level.

"It's a slave barracks. That's where the women who work in the
surrounding factories live."

"Do you think that we could slip to the roof without attracting too
much attention?"

All about them they could hear the hum of machinery, the pulsing life
of the factory district.

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders. "They work in shifts. The factories
never close down. This is as good a time as any."

He crossed to the slave barracks, tried the rear door. It was unlocked.
Cautiously, he pulled it open. A long hall like a hotel corridor with a
stair well at the far end stretched before him. The slave barracks were
not equipped with lifts. The hall was empty.

"Come on," he said, and slipped inside.

They reached the stairs, crept up to the second floor. Again the
corridor was empty and they continued their ascent. At the fourth
stage, however, Norman halted, his eyes on a level with the floor. Two
women were gossiping not a dozen feet away.

"Go on," hissed the Duchess desperately. "There's someone coming up the
steps behind us!"

Norman heard the clatter of footsteps below them. He hadn't time to
hesitate, but leaped up the steps three at a time.

"Eeeek!" a startled shriek escaped one of the women. "Wasn't that a
man, Cheryl?"

"Yes! Yes, it was," replied the one addressed as Cheryl, "with a girl
chasing him like mad, the hussy!"

"What would a man be doing in here?"

"Now what do you think a man would be doing in the female slave
barracks?"

The excited chatter of feminine tongues all wagging at once overtook
the pair as they raced upward. Norman's heart sank like a stone. The
way was closed behind them. Unexpectedly, he popped out on the roof,
paused to catch his breath.

"Go on!" panted the Duchess. "Go on, for heaven's sake! The party on
the stairs below us. I caught a glimpse of them. They were plant men!"

"Plant men!"

"Yes! Yes! They must have been inspecting the barracks. Hurry!"

Norman cast a glance at the exquisitely landscaped roof gardens atop
the warehouse next door. The gap appeared wider than it had from the
street. Furthermore, the top of the warehouse was much lower, a wall
surrounding the garden having given it the appearance of being the same
height as the slave barracks.

An ominous mutter like the sound of a disturbed hornet's nest ascended
the stair well. Norman cast caution to the wind, sprinted across the
flat roof, launched himself into space.

He cleared the top of the wall by inches, glanced downward. A man lay
sunning himself directly beneath. The man had on trunks. He lay on his
back and his dark sun glasses gave him a goggle-eyed appearance. He
started to yell and sit up.

       *       *       *       *       *

Norman landed with both feet in the pit of the man's stomach. There was
an explosive _ooof_ as Norman sprawled forward on the roof. Then the
Duchess sailed over the wall, lit full on the sun-bather, tumbled head
over heels, arms and legs flying.

Norman got to his hands and knees, surveyed their victim in
consternation. The man was unconscious.

"I hope he's not dead."

"You better hope he is," said the Duchess, sitting up.

He felt the man's pulse. It throbbed feebly.

"What'll we do with him?"

"Toss him over the edge," suggested the girl.

"We can't do that!" protested Norman in horror. "We'll bring him along.
Maybe we can find some place to lock him up." He took hold of the man,
heaved, grunted, got him over his shoulder. "There's the elevator
house, beyond that rock garden," he panted, staggering toward it.

They reached the elevator. It was an automatic lift, he saw. The
indicator showed that the cage was on the floor below them. He was
about to press the button when the Duchess's eyes widened. The needle
on the indicator was slowly revolving around the dial.

"Someone's coming up," gasped Norman. Feverishly, he heaved the
unconscious man behind a bush. The Duchess dived around the corner of
the elevator house as Norman plucked a stone the size of his head from
the rock garden, crouched behind a dwarf fir beside the doors.

The doors slid back. A man in civilian clothes stepped onto the roof.

"Bauer," he called. "Hey, Bauer."

Norman hit him over the head with the stone. The man crumpled.

The Duchess peered around the edge of the elevator house, stepped out.
"You're getting quite a collection."

Norman looked worried. He hauled the sun-bather from behind the bush
and stacked both of them inside the elevator. "Come on."

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders, stepped into the elevator.

"Where are the suits?" he asked.

"Basement."

He pressed the button. The car shot downward.

"Did you kill this one?" asked the Duchess hopefully.

He shook his head. "I don't think so."

The car stopped suddenly, the doors slid back. Norman stared out at
a dimly-lit, low-ceilinged room which stretched off into shadows on
either hand. It was full of bales, boxes and dust.

He dragged the bodies out, stretched them side by side on the floor.

"Where are the suits?"

"Any of those cases."

Feverishly, he broke one open, pulled out the familiar green suit with
helmet, gloves, and boots attached.

"Now that you've got it," said the Duchess, "have you figured how
you're going to get out with it? We've got as much chance of returning
the way we came as of burrowing through the walls. That slave barracks
won't quiet down for a week."

He appeared crestfallen, then his eyes lit on his latest victim. He
brightened. "Aren't the only men in Behrl who wear civilian clothes
agents of the Venusian Export Lines, and didn't you say they had their
headquarters upstairs?"

The Duchess nodded.

He began to strip the clothes from their second victim.

"We'll walk out the front door," he said grimly.

"You're a resourceful rogue," the Duchess admitted with admiration.

In a matter of minutes, he had changed clothes. Hastily, he bundled up
the green suit, wrapped it in a piece of packing paper. "Let's get out
of here."

"What about these?" The Duchess indicated the bodies on the floor.

"Leave them there. They don't know what hit them."

They re-entered the lift, got off on the street floor. Six guards were
loafing in the foyer. One of them winked when he saw the slave girl
demurely following the young man out of the elevator.

Norman swallowed, walked out into the blessed sunlight. No one tried to
stop him.

He didn't draw an easy breath until they were back in his car, the
insulation suit tucked under the seat.

"Well," he said triumphantly as they sped from the alley onto a broad
thoroughfare, "that's one."

"One!" cried the Duchess. "You're not going to try to get any more?"

"We need hundreds," he assured her.

       *       *       *       *       *

She stared at him in awe. "Hundreds!" Then she began to laugh. "Well,
the Lord helps those who help themselves."

They drove along for a few minutes in silence.

"Listen," said the Duchess suddenly. "You need more insulation suits. I
know how they can be obtained."

"How?"

"I know the people who work in the factory. There are a few I can
trust. If anyone could slip out the green suits, they could."

Norman was jubilant. "Great," he ejaculated.

"But you'll have to buy me."

"Buy you?" he echoed.

"Yes," said the Duchess. "If I have to stay at that library another
day, I'll die. Besides, I need more freedom to contact the workers."

She saw him wavering, put her hand over his on the wheel. "It gets so
lonesome in that library."

"All right," he agreed.

The Duchess threw her arms about him. "You're a dear," she squealed.

Jennifer, he thought unhappily, wasn't going to like this at all.

The transaction proved as simple as the Duchess had forecast. For the
ridiculous sum of fifty notes plus the girl's original purchase price,
the agent transferred her to Norman Saint Clair. He turned the car into
the basement of the apartment, his latest venture in livestock on the
seat beside him. He had been rather silent since leaving the agent.
Not only must he explain the Duchess to Jennifer, he had to explain
Jennifer to the Duchess.

He brought the car to a stop, said uneasily, "I forgot to tell you.
I have...." He paused, started over again. "There is another girl in
my apartment, too. She.... Well.... There are three bedrooms. I don't
think we'll be too crowded. Do you?" He mopped his brow with his
handkerchief.

The Duchess was regarding him, a steel-like glint in her gray eyes.

"Of all the deceitful, lecherous rogues it's been my misfortune to
meet," she said, her tone low, gentle, "in a profession where rogues
abound, you are the lowest."

"Now I say ..." he protested, but the Duchess swept his words aside.

"You wolf, bleating like a lamb. Oh, you're clever. I haven't a thing
to reproach you with. You fixed it so it was I who asked you to buy
me. But mark this, handsome, our association is going to be strictly
business. You supply me with food and shelter; I supply the Sinn
Feiners with green suits."

"But isn't that why I bought you?" he asked in perplexity.

"What?" said the Duchess, hauling herself up short.

"I mean, you didn't like the library, and you needed more freedom any
way to contact the factory workers. It looked to me like a sensible
plan."

"Well, I'll be darned," said the Duchess.

"What?" he asked.

"I apologize." She held out her hand. He took it gratefully. "If you
like," she said, "you can give me a good swift kick."

They went up in the lift. When they entered the apartment, they found
Koal talking to Jennifer. He introduced the Duchess.

"I bought her from the Dohlmites," he blurted out. "She's to have the
spare room."

Koal regarded the Duchess with admiration, made a clucking sound.
Norman reddened.

"What are you doing?" asked Jennifer sweetly. "Starting a harem?"

"Won't it be cozy," interposed the Duchess coolly, "twenty-nine or
thirty of us scampering about the apartment."

"What?" said Jennifer.

"Well, you know what the collecting instinct's like."

Norman hastily unwrapped the green suit, related their adventures. The
Duchess, he explained, had promised to help procure more of them.

Although Jennifer still seemed skeptical, the Martian's expression
changed. He looked at the Duchess thoughtfully. "You can supply us with
more of these?"

"Yes. There's a girl who works in the factory. We played the triangle
together. Her name's Marcia. We were booked for a run on Ganymede when
we were captured. If anyone can slip out the green suits, she can."

The Martian nodded. "We'll have a car waiting behind the factory." He
turned suddenly upon Norman. "I've got bad news," he said.

Norman felt his heart sink.

"What is it?"

"The Dohlmites are preparing to attack Ganymede."

"Ganymede!" ejaculated Norman. "When?"

The Martian gestured palm up with his hands, shrugged. "We haven't been
told yet. I imagine they're waiting until all the ships are back. It's
the beginning of the end of the Empire, unless we can do something
quick."


                                  IX

During the next ten sleeping periods an epidemic of small parties broke
out in the human colony. The Sinn Fein Society from its tiny spark had
spread into a conflagration. Apartment F12 was rapidly being converted
into an arsenal as the men hid rocket shells, ray rifles, dum-dums
and dart guns in the basement. Furthermore, twelve bales of green
insulation suits had been added to the one Norman and the Duchess had
stolen.

The Duchess had made good her promise and a steady stream of suits was
being slipped into the hands of the Sinn Feiners. She was ensconced in
the third bedroom of Norman's apartment. Jennifer had not relented.

"When you add any more wenches to your collection," Jennifer replied,
coolly skeptical, "quarter them with the Duchess. I absolutely refuse
to share my room with any of your paramours."

Norman had returned from a meeting of the Sinn Feiners where he had
learned that most of the ships were back already and were being
refitted for the attack on Ganymede. Time pressed. He said:

"Jennifer, I'm going to drive out into the country to try to get a line
on the vegetation. I came back to the apartment to ask you to come
along."

"No," she said perversely. "Why don't you ask Alicia?"

"Alicia?"

"Yes, Alicia, the elevator operator. She's been asking about you."

Norman's ire mounted. "Jennifer," he said wrathfully, "I've been
exceptionally lenient."

"Lenient?" repeated the girl.

"That's right, lenient." He advanced on her threateningly. She backed
off in consternation. "It's not uncommon for disobedient slaves to be
given a sound thrashing, locked up on bread and water."

"You wouldn't dare." The girl compressed her lips.

"Now then," he went on, "are you coming with me peacefully or must I
descend to force?"

She stamped her foot. "No!"

Norman grabbed her, slung her over his shoulder, started for the door.

"Put me down! Put me down!" she cried, kicking vigorously.

"Are you coming along quietly?"

"No!"

He carried her into the hall, made for the elevator, pressed the button.

"Norman," she pleaded in consternation. "Put me down before that
elevator gets here."

"Are you coming quietly?"

"Yes. For heaven's sake, yes!"

He placed her on her feet. She brushed her black hair from her eyes,
straightened her white tunic with a wriggle.

"Oh!" she said, "of all the indignities!" But the corners of her lips
kept trying to break into a grin. "Would you really have hauled me to
your car like that in front of everybody?"

"Yes," he replied seriously.

In spite of herself Jennifer burst into laughter. "You know, sometimes
you're the most amazing rogue I've ever met. I can't stay angry at you
for ten minutes."

The city of Behrl had been built around the enormous blow hole through
which escaping gasses in some distant geological age had burst to the
surface of Neptune. Beyond its outskirts lay a hilly country matted
with undergrowth. The road kept getting worse and worse until finally
it ended abruptly on the slope of a hill.

Norman brought the car to a stop. "End of the line," he said and hopped
out. Jennifer followed him.

"Well," said Jennifer glancing at the weird vegetation about them.
"Where do we start?"

"I don't know," he confessed. His eyes swept the country. A thick
growth of small shrubs matted with creepers cloaked the hillside. The
air smelled rich, hot, fertile.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "what's that?" He pointed to a bare spot a
quarter of a mile away. It was several acres in extent. And even in the
rosy sunlight it seemed to pulse with a phosphorescent light.

Jennifer shivered. "What makes the light?"

"Let's take a look at it," he suggested.

       *       *       *       *       *

Norman in the lead, they began to force their way through the
grotesque, waist-high jungle. The sun beat down hotly on their
uncovered heads. He wiped the perspiration from his face, swatted
vindictively at a small persistent insect.

Jennifer tripped on a thick purple creeper, muttered something under
her breath which sounded like cursing. Norman grinned, plowed ahead. It
took them almost half an hour to reach the edge of the bare spot.

"A landslide," he ejaculated.

The slide had gouged a deep gash in the loamy soil of the hillside. It
was from this gash that the glow emanated. For yards on either side the
vegetation was dead. He crossed the belt of dead plants, approached
the gash. On the brink, he paused, shaded his eyes, backed off hastily.

"Stay away!" he cautioned the girl. "Don't look in there!"

"Why?" she cried, halting in her tracks.

"Radium! I'm not sure, but I think it's almost pure radium. Jennifer,
do you realize? The landslide has uncovered a fortune. We're rich!"

She looked at him sadly. "What difference does it make?"

But his jubilation was not to be dampened. "We won't be here forever.
Um-um!" He smacked his lips, almost danced. "Radium! We'd better get
back a ways, we're too close to the stuff as it is."

They retreated to the edge of the stricken vegetation. Even here the
plants were sickly, wilted. Half a dozen of them were coated with red,
rust-like scales.

Jennifer suddenly grabbed his shoulder, shook him. "Come out of your
daze, Midas," she laughed a little hysterically. "Look at the plants.
They're dead. Don't you see. It's killed them. Wouldn't it kill the
plant men, too."

But Norman shook his head. "They know as much if not more about radium
than we do. It's dangerous, yes, but it's not a weapon." Suddenly he
dropped to his knees beside a dwarf shrub. It was one of those covered
with the red scales. "But, by Jupiter, this may be."

"What is it?" said the girl in a stifled voice.

"Blight!"

"What?" she asked in astonishment.

"Blight!" he repeated. "Don't you see? It's blight. Look." He pointed
to the scabrous red scale attacking the shrub.

She shook her head in bewilderment.

"If the Dohlmites aren't blight resistant, Jennifer, this may be the
weapon." His voice was hoarse with excitement, the radium forgotten.
He said, "In the early days in America, blight attacked the chestnut
trees. It wiped out every American chestnut from coast to coast."

"What about the other trees?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well," he admitted, "it didn't harm them."

"Maybe the plant men aren't susceptible to this disease, either."

"Maybe not, but it's a chance. It's the only chance that's presented
itself, and we haven't much time left before the Dohlmites will order
the attack on Ganymede." Tenderly, he dug up the infected plant,
wrapped its roots in his handkerchief.

"What in the world are you doing?"

"I'm going to infect a Dohlmite with this blight!" he replied grimly.

Jennifer giggled.

"What's so funny?" he wanted to know.

"Blight! It does seem such an odd method of attack."

Once back in the apartment, Jennifer dived beneath a cold shower.
Norman, though, went straight to the kitchen where he transplanted the
infected plant into a saucepan and took it out on the balcony.

He heard the front door open and close with a loud bang. He started
guiltily, thought who could that be? Should the Dohlmites discover the
infected plant that he was nurturing on his balcony, the penalty would
be swift and final. He dashed into the hall.

Jennifer's head stuck beyond her door revealing one bare wet shoulder.
Her blue eyes were panicky. "Who is it?"

He shook his head, went into the living-room. With a sigh of relief, he
recognized the Duchess.

"Norman, you're back!" cried the Duchess wildly. "I didn't know what
I'd do if you weren't here."

The young man's reassurance evaporated. The Duchess's blond hair was
disheveled. She was panting as if she'd been running.

"What's wrong?"

"We've been betrayed!" said the Duchess in a frightened voice.


                                   X

"Betrayed!" echoed Norman.

The Duchess nodded. Her gray eyes were enormous. "I've been expecting
to keel over on the street all the way home!"

"Who? How?"

"One of your precious Earth men. Hops, he's called." She paused, said,
"I feel kind of dizzy! My God! You don't suppose the Dohlmites are
putting the finger on me, do you?"

"No. No, of course not. It's just shock. Sit down. Jennifer," he
called, "make the Duchess some tea, coffee, anything hot."

"Tea, hell," said the Duchess sinking on the couch. "Bring me a shot of
whiskey."

Jennifer had hastily slipped on her tunic. She brought a glass of
whiskey from the kitchen. The Duchess drank it neat.

"Now, what happened?" pressed Norman.

"Marcia told me," began the Duchess. "She's the girl in the troop I
told you about. The one who played the triangle with me and who's been
slipping us the green suits."

"Yes, yes," he interrupted impatiently.

She said, "Vermeer and Del Solar were inspecting the factory."

"Vermeer," ejaculated Norman. "I know Vermeer. But who's Del Solar?"

"Del Solar's chief of the Venusian Export Lines. Vermeer's his
assistant. They are the only two humans allowed beyond the force wall.
They've charge of the factory, you know, and it isn't unusual for them
to make an inspection, but Marcia was jittery. She was afraid they'd
discover she'd been stealing the green suits.

"She hung around them trying to overhear what they were saying. She
was listening when one of the guards approached Del Solar and told him
there was a man outside to see him. 'Send him in,' says Del Solar. So
the guard brought this Hops inside. When Marcia saw it was a fighting
man and not an agent or a slave she sneaked behind a packing case where
she could hear every word they said.

"'What do you want?' Del Solar asked. Hops told him he knew about a
conspiracy. He wanted to give Del Solar the names of the leaders in
exchange for a post in the Venusian Export Lines. He told a lot more
too: about us stealing the insulation suits, how the Sinn Feiners have
spread all over Behrl. Enough to convince Del Solar that it was a
serious matter."

"But he hasn't our names yet?" Norman clutched at a straw.

The Duchess shook her head. "Not yet. Del Solar wanted them. But Hops
is no fool. He wouldn't betray the names of the conspirators until he
was guaranteed a post with the Export Company. No one is accepted in
the company without the plant men's approval. That means Del Solar will
have to see the Dohlmites first."

"Jennifer," commanded Norman, "get Koal. Tell him to bring Acpsahme."

The girl left, her blue eyes frightened.

"Go on," urged Norman. He was trying to place Hops, then he remembered.
Hops had been one of the renegade Earth men present at the first
meeting.

"Well, Del Solar asked him his name and where he lived. That's how
Marcia knew who he was. He lives in G-seven, but she couldn't remember
his apartment number. Then Del Solar said he'd meet Hops in the Earth
man's apartment as soon as he'd seen the Dohlmites."

Jennifer burst into the room leading Koal and Acpsahme.

"What's this about a traitor?" cried the usually calm Martian.

"Tell them," commanded Norman.

The Duchess repeated her story.

"If we can reach Hops in time," Koal exploded, "we're not lost yet!"

"Whether we're in time or not," interposed Acpsahme in a flat voice,
"we've business with Hops. Have you got your gun, Norman?"

The young man caught his breath. The meaning behind Acpsahme's words
was only too clear.

"Yes," he faltered. He felt hollow inside. He wasn't frightened, just
sick.

"Come on," said Acpsahme in that unemotional voice.

"Norman," said Jennifer in a frightened tone.

"Don't interfere," he heard the Duchess say. "This is man's work." Then
he was outside in the corridor.

While waiting for the elevator, they met Pepperell, the ex-T.I.S.
agent. Koal explained briefly what had occurred.

"Spread the word, Pepperell. If we're in time, this should discourage
any ambition to sell us out among the others."

       *       *       *       *       *

They went down in the lift, entered Koal's car, drove out into the
blinding sunlight. We're going to kill a man, Norman thought. Little
beads of sweat stood out on his temples. He saw the informer stretched
lifeless on the floor, his blank eyes staring at him accusingly.

"Don't think about it," advised Koal, with that disconcerting ability
to divine what was passing through Norman's mind.

They turned into the base of G7. Koal brought the car to a stop. A
guard advanced to examine their papers. Norman recognized him as a Sinn
Feiner. Acpsahme leaned forward, explained their errand.

The guard compressed his lips angrily. "Go ahead," he growled. "He's on
H deck, apartment Four-o-eight."

They went up in the lift. On H deck they walked slowly along the hall
until they came to room 408.

"Get your gun out," said Koal, and knocked.

There was a bitter taste in Norman's mouth. He felt sick at his stomach
as he had when he'd seen the murdered T.I.S. agent aboard the _Jupiter_.

The door opened.

Hops was framed in the entrance. He seemed to know instantly why the
three grim-faced, silent men had come. His features went stiff with
terror. He backed into the room. His mouth opened.

"All right," said Koal.

"_No!_" cried Hops.

Acpsahme's dart struck the informer in the neck.

"Search the room," commanded Koal, stepping across the informer's body.

They found a paper upon which Hops had been working. It contained the
names of seventy-eight of the Sinn Feiners. Norman's name headed the
list.

"A real distinction," observed the Martian dryly.

It was an honor that Norman didn't covet. They found nothing else of
importance.

"Leave him lie," said Acpsahme. "I think we have been in time. The
Dohlmites know there's a rebellion afoot, but they don't know who's
concerned."

"This is one time," observed the Martian, "when what they don't know is
going to hurt them."

They started out. At the door, Acpsahme stopped, yanked out his dart
gun. Norman peering over his shoulders, saw a Dohlmite accompanied
by a man in civilian clothes. They were scarcely a dozen steps down
the corridor. The plant man's mask-like face gave no clue to what
was passing through his mind. The Earth man, though, was plainly
frightened.

"Del Solar," the Martian hissed, his voice sibilant. "He's come to get
the names of the Sinn Feiners from Hops."

Del Solar spun around, began to run back down the hall. Again it was
Acpsahme's dart which halted the man. Del Solar pitched forward on his
face.

Koal fired three times at the plant man. Norman saw the darts strike
the Dohlmite's chest, stick out like pins, but he didn't fall. The
poisoned needles seemed to have no more effect on the plant man than
they would have had on a tree. He, too, began to run.

"Quick," cried Acpsahme. "Don't let him escape."

Norman leaped in pursuit, tackled the fleeing plant man about the hips.
They went down in a tangle. He saw a knife flash. It was withdrawn
green and sticky. The Dohlmite quit struggling. Norman staggered to his
feet.

[Illustration: _Koal's blade flashed, cut into the Dohlmite's neck._]

"Good work," said Koal. He was wiping his blade on the plant man's
harness.

A thought struck Norman. His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to
say, "I want the corpse of the Dohlmite."

"Why?" ejaculated the Martian.

Briefly, he revealed his discovery of the blight-sickened plant. "I
want to infect this Dohlmite with the blight. There's a chance that
when his fellows carry him into their city, the blight will spread."

"It's a gamble," said Koal thoughtfully. "But it's worth it."

"Leave Del Solar lie where he is then," put in Acpsahme. "We'll take
the Dohlmite."

They dragged the corpse of the plant man to the elevator, dropped
swiftly to the basement. Acpsahme called the guard.

"We've had to kill a plant man," he said quietly.

A look of terror passed across the guard's features. Involuntarily, he
took a backward step.

"We're taking the body," Acpsahme went on in a low voice. "Hops and an
agent of the Venusian Export Lines are still above. Dispose of them as
you think best."

The guard nodded. They loaded the stringy frame of the plant man into
their car, shot out into the rosy sunlight.

Norman felt dazed. Although he had not actually killed any of the
three, he considered himself as guilty as if it had been his finger
that pulled the trigger. He began to tremble. He felt as if he were
going to be violently sick.

"Brace up," said Koal with that queer intuition. "It'll pass."

Acpsahme chuckled. "The first man I killed, I ran to my house and cried
like a baby. I couldn't stop. I wanted them to bleach the tattoo off my
forehead."

Somehow Norman felt better.

       *       *       *       *       *

When they reached the basement of F12, they left Acpsahme to guard the
body, ascended in the lift to Norman's apartment.

Jennifer and the Duchess met them at the door. Jennifer had been
crying, Norman saw with satisfaction.

"Norman, Norman," the girl said and flew to his arms.

He patted her shoulder, disengaged himself gently. "We've still got
work to do."

"We had to kill Del Solar and a plant man," Koal explained briefly.
"The Dohlmites are going to be furious, but I don't think they will
suspect us. Norman has an experiment he wants to try with the body of
the Dohlmite."

The Duchess turned to him, astonished.

"The blight," he explained. "I'm going to try to infect the plant man
with the blight. When the Dohlmites find his body and carry it into
their city, I'm gambling on it spreading."

He retrieved the infected plant from the balcony. Even in that short
time the shrub had visibly wilted. The blight had spread over twice its
former area.

"It seems to be a virulent disease," observed the Martian.

They carried the infected plant to the basement. Norman dusted the
corpse from head to foot with the rust-like scales. Anything touching
the body would be bound to come in contact with them.

"All right," said Acpsahme, "let's take him out and get this over with."

A broad yellow line marked the zone beyond which it was death to stray.
It was the first time Norman had been close to the force wall. He
looked at it curiously.

A ribbon of some unfamiliar silver metal wound like the track of a mono
rail around the base of the hill where the Dohlmites had their houses.
There were no visible rays arising from the ribbon, no distortion of
the atmosphere, nothing. It looked utterly harmless.

"I wonder what would happen if you broke the circuit," speculated
Norman.

"It's impossible," replied Koal. "The zone of force protects the
ribbon. Look." He threw a pebble toward the silver track of metal.
While still a yard from the ribbon, the stone exploded like a hand
grenade. It was as if the force radiating from the track had touched
off the atoms of the pebble. Norman blinked his eyes involuntarily.

"How do the Dohlmites pass through?"

"There's a gate only a short distance from here where they can shut off
a segment of the wall."

The buildings of the human colony, Norman noticed, were set well back
from the yellow warning line, leaving a broad road which paralleled
the silver track. There was no one in sight. It seemed to be a very
unpopular neighborhood.

"Get him out," grunted Acpsahme. They tossed the body of the
disease-infected Dohlmite to the road.

"The Trojan horse," thought Norman, remembering a tale from the dawn of
history. He glanced back once as they sped away.


                                  XI

Preparations for the invasion of Ganymede went forward during the next
six sleeping periods. The Dohlmites had been unsuccessful in their
investigation, and had withdrawn behind their force wall, transmitting
their orders through the agents of the Venusian Export Lines.

Then the date of sailing was set. Norman received his orders to report
aboard the _Rocket_ within twenty-four hours.

He paced back and forth across the living-room of his apartment. Even
if the blight did sweep the Dohlmites, he thought, with the Sinn
Feiners away on Ganymede they wouldn't be able to take advantage of
their opportunity.

Jennifer entered from the bedroom, glanced at him worriedly, said,
"Norman, relax or you'll have a nervous breakdown."

He flung himself on the couch. "If only we knew what's happening behind
the force wall. The Dohlmites are taking this so queerly. I haven't
seen one on the streets for days."

The buzzer announced someone at the door. He leaped to his feet,
answered it anxiously. Koal came inside. There was a flicker of triumph
in the Martian's eyes.

"The sailing," he announced, "has been indefinitely postponed!"

Norman sank on the couch, only to spring up again.

"Something's happened on the hill!"

Koal nodded his head. "That's what I think."

"We've got to know what it is," cried Norman. "If it's the blight, and
it leaves only one plant man alive, he's still master of every one
of us." He paused, bit his lip, said, "Koal, issue the green suits
to a select force. Have them ready to storm the hill. I'm going to
reconnoitre the force wall."

"Watch your step," the Martian cautioned. "This may be a trap." He
turned on his heel, left the apartment.

"Norman," said Jennifer looking utterly miserable, "do be careful."

He kissed her, said, "I will," and started for the door. A heady
excitement was pounding in his blood.

From the apartment he drove to the gate in the force wall.

Two parallel lines of yellow intersected the silver track at right
angles and indicated the segment which could be shut off. Just within
the wall he saw a small cage like a switchman's shack on a railroad.
But the plant man who operated the gate was not there.

He frowned, swept the hill above with his eyes. Not a figure stirred on
any of the airy balconies. Nothing moved in the streets. The city of
the Dohlmites was a ghost town.

A feeling that he was being watched made his heart beat faster.

He caught his breath. For a moment he thought he had detected a faint
movement in one of the doorways. Was this a trap after all? Minutes
slipped past but the movement was not repeated. The high noon sun beat
down on the empty street.

He got out of the car, walked cautiously toward the force wall, halted
at the yellow stripe. It was maddening to be stopped by that intangible
emanation from the silver track.

He started to turn away, paused, staring rigidly at the hill. A man was
running blindly away down the curving road which led between the plant
men's houses. Even at that distance, Norman could detect something
peculiar about the man's flight. He would run several hundred yards,
stumble, fall, drag himself to his feet and go on.

As he drew closer, Norman identified him as a plant man. He seemed
to be making for the gate in the force wall. He reached the glassite
shack, staggered inside. Norman could see him fumble weakly with the
switch. The Dohlmite was shutting down the current at the gate.

Still with that strange intentness, the plant man lurched out again,
stumbled, fell. He tried to rise, fell back. No flicker of emotion
betrayed the terrible fear which must be driving him onward. He pulled
himself to his hands and knees, began to crawl through the gate. He
reached the silver ribbon, keeping in the center of the yellow lines.
His eyes stared straight ahead. He wobbled across the force wall, kept
on. Crawling on hands and knees, he passed within ten feet of Norman
and didn't seem to see him.

Twenty yards beyond Norman his wobble became more pronounced, like
a toy running down. Then he seemed to hesitate. His arms and legs
suddenly gave way. He collapsed. This time he didn't try to rise, but
lay still, lay still as death. Norman shuddered and looked away.

From head to heels the plant man was covered with the red, rust-like
scales.

       *       *       *       *       *

With a start Norman realized that the way into the city lay open before
him. He drew his breath sharply, walked slowly between the parallel
yellow lines. His nerves quivered as he stepped across the silver
track. He was inside at last. He set out up the hill.

As Norman reached the first houses, the toll exacted by the scabrous
red blight became apparent. It had swept the population on the hill
like a plague. Plant men lay in the streets, on the balconies, in the
houses, their bodies scaly with rust. It had even begun to spread to
the festooned hanging gardens.

Crowning the apex of the hill was a tremendous structure pillared like
the incredibly ancient Grecian temples of which a few pictures still
survived. A feeling of elation seized him. This surely was the building
which housed the death broadcasting machine. This was the end of his
journey.

A voice behind him shouted, "Stop, Saint Clair!"

He spun around.

Vermeer was toiling up the hill behind him. The agent of the Venusian
Export Lines had his dart gun drawn and levelled. He halted half a
dozen steps from Norman. He said, "There's always a reckoning, Saint
Clair."

Wildly, Norman speculated on his chance should he hurl himself at
Vermeer in the face of the poisoned needles. He knew there was none.

"You've had a remarkable run of luck," Vermeer smiled. "But by the laws
of chance, it was bound to turn."

Norman didn't reply. The explosion of a rocket shell suddenly rent
the air, followed by the crackle of dum-dum fire. It ascended faintly
unreal from the human colony below them.

"My men," Vermeer explained, "are attacking yours. But it doesn't
matter who wins. The real contest is being decided up here between us
two. It's rather like ancient times, with which you're so familiar,
Saint Clair, when battles were decided between two champions. You see,
I took the precaution to close the gate before I followed you."

Norman could feel the drag of his own dart gun at his waist, considered
throwing himself to one side, snatching for his gun. Vermeer, he
realized bitterly, had only to pull his trigger.

"I wonder," Vermeer went on, "if you realize the stakes we're playing
for? The man who remains alive within the force wall can control the
solar system." He laughed exultantly, drew a careful bead on Norman's
chest.

He's going to fire, thought Norman. Even at that distance, he could see
the knuckles of the agent's hand whiten as they contracted about the
pommel of the dart gun.

A fantastic hope crystallized in his mind. Conception and action was
simultaneous.

"Now!" Norman breathed, and fell as if dead.

He fell just a fraction of a second before Vermeer pulled the trigger.
He heard the poisoned dart whistle over his shoulder, then he hit the
street with a jarring thud and lay still. He daren't breathe, daren't
flicker an eyelash.

It would never occur to Vermeer that he could have missed at twenty
short paces. The very deadliness of the darts precluded any necessity
of administering a _coup de grace_. Norman could hear the shuffle of
Vermeer's approaching steps. Had the trick worked?

Vermeer's foot nudged him in the ribs.

Like the recoil of a spring, Norman grabbed the agent's ankles, threw
his weight against Vermeer's knees. The man toppled backward. Norman
swarmed on top of him.

Vermeer had been suspicious. He still retained the dart gun in his
hand. Norman seized his wrist. They struggled fiercely, silently in the
empty streets, their only audience the plant men covered with blight,
full of the indifference of death.

With a surge of exultation Norman felt Vermeer's wrist weaken. He threw
his weight on the weapon, bent it downward. His finger covered the
trigger. He squeezed.

Vermeer shuttered and lay still.

Norman crouched backward off the dead agent to his feet. The sound of
firing in the human colony was silent. Whatever the outcome of the
battle had been, he realized, it was over.

       *       *       *       *       *

What was it Vermeer had said? "The man who remains alive within the
force wall can control the Solar System." He, Norman Saint Clair,
who had set out from Earth to lecture on Ancient History in distant
Ganymede, was as much master of the System at this moment as if the
battle had already been fought.

He had no difficulty locating the death broadcasting machine. It was
housed in a tremendous hall in the Dohlmite temple of science. It was
a delicate affair of tubes and wires. The cylinders, he saw, were fed
into it automatically so that it could broadcast its messages of death
with machine gun rapidity.

He seized a chair, savagely smashed the machine into fragments. It
was a weapon of enslavement. No good could come of it. At length, he
paused. The cylinders and the force wall remained, but they could wait.

With a growing sense of triumph, he left the temple of science,
retraced his steps down the hill between the silent houses.

While still half way to the gate, he made out hundreds of men crowded
just beyond the force wall. As he drew closer he recognized Koal and
Acpsahme in the front ranks. He went into the glassite shack, threw the
switch that shut off the segment of the wall. He forced himself to walk
across the silver track, say in a calm voice:

"The Dohlmites are dead, Koal. The machine is destroyed. We're free."

A savage cheer rang up from the men. Runners left to inform the rest of
the city. Koal seized his hand, nearly wrung it off.

Acpsahme said, "The men of the Venusian Export Lines attacked us. They
bit off more than they could chew."

"Pepperell? Where's Pepperell?" asked Norman.

"Here," replied the T.I.S. agent.

"Pepperell," said Norman. "Get in touch with the Terrestial
Intelligence Service over the radio at once. You know their code.
Tell them to send an accredited ambassador of the Earth Congress in
the Empire's fastest space ship toward Neptune, but don't reveal our
location. We'll contact the ship beyond the orbit of Jupiter. I want,"
he said with a sudden laugh, "to arrange a surprise for the ambassador."


                                  XII

During the following days a bacchanalian orgy swept Behrl as former
slaves and pirates went wild with freedom. It was the maddest spree in
the history of the System. Only in the apartment of Norman Saint Clair
did sanity hold forth.

There the nine remaining men of the original thirteen who had launched
the Sinn Feiners, worked ceaselessly to bring order out of chaos. Hops,
the traitor, was dead. Pepperell, in charge of a picked crew, had
been despatched in the _Rocket_ to fetch the ambassador of the Earth
Congress. Two of the Martians had been killed in the battle with the
men of the Venusian Export Lines.

Many of the pirates and slaves would desire to remain, Norman thought.
Here was a new world, a rich world with unguessed resources waiting for
exploitation. But for those who wished to return, transportation to
Earth had to be arranged.

At the present, the nine original members of the Sinn Feiners had
assumed control of Behrl, but a permanent form of government also must
be drawn up. The vast housing facilities and factories thrown open to
the colonists demanded cooperative ownership, a communal government.
With a sigh, Norman turned over his radium mines to the new state.

The nine men were seated about a long table which had been installed in
his living-room. He said with a wry grin, "Gentlemen, I'm absolutely
the only man in history to turn down mastery of the Solar System and
then toss away a fortune on top of it."

The buzzer softly announced a visitor. Koal rose, admitted Pepperell,
the ex-T.I.S. agent. The men crowded about him, firing questions. "Did
he have the ambassador with him? Was there any trouble?"

Pepperell laughed, held up his hands.

"Give me a chance, gentlemen. Give me a chance. Yes, I've got the
ambassador."

"Did everything go as planned?" asked Norman anxiously.

Pepperell nodded. "Yes. We contacted the Empire's ship. They had no
suspicion that we were anywhere about until we caught them in the
paralysis ray. We boarded them successfully, took the ambassador
off. He was a very surprised ambassador when he woke up aboard the
_Rocket_--and a very thoughtful one."

"How much does he know?"

"He hasn't been told anything," said Pepperell.

The buzzer rang a second time.

"That must be him now." Pepperell went to the door.

The ambassador was in the corridor. He had been escorted to the
apartment by a squad of men from the _Rocket_.

"Gentlemen," Pepperell introduced him, "may I present Mustapha Tiflis,
Ambassador of the Empire."

"Jupiter!" Norman breathed. The Earth Congress had sent their ablest
member, the man who was slated to be the next Autocrat.

Norman seated him at the table. Mustapha Tiflis was an Earth man of
Oriental origin. His hair and eyes were black, his nose strongly
hooked. He appeared to be in his early fifties. His features bore an
expression of guarded surprise. The surprise spread as Norman related
briefly the origin of the terror and how they had finally destroyed the
plant men. He said:

"Ambassador, we kidnapped you in the fashion we did for two reasons.
First, until we have been granted citizenship, we prefer to keep our
hiding place a secret. Second, we wanted to impress you with the
effectiveness of the invisible ship and the paralysis ray."

"You succeeded," said Mustapha Tiflis.

"Now in regard to our citizenship, we wish to be taken into the Empire,
not as a colony, but as a sovereign state with a seat in the Earth
Congress."

Mustapha Tiflis frowned. "It's quite without precedent," he said. "As
you know, all colonies are administered by a governor."

"But we are in a position to bargain," said Norman handing the
ambassador the document which the nine had drawn up. "We have the
secret of the invisible ships to offer the Empire, the paralysis ray
and a world."

Mustapha Tiflis was an ambitious man and quick to recognize
opportunity. In later years, he was to rise to a position of almost
absolute dictatorship, and with the aid of the invisible ships and
paralysis ray, bring Mars and Venus under the wings of the Empire. He
read the document carefully, scrawled his signature at the bottom. "And
now, gentlemen, if you would be so kind, just exactly where the hell am
I?"

       *       *       *       *       *

As the last of the Executive Committee trooped outside, Norman turned
back into the apartment, saw Jennifer watching him from the doorway.

"It's finished," he said. He looked faintly embarrassed. "We've come a
long way together, haven't we?"

The girl nodded, slipped into the room.

His embarrassment mounted. "I was hoping ..." he began. "This is a good
world now that the plant men are dead. We...."

"Yes?" said Jennifer.

He drew his breath. "Would you...."

"Yes," said Jennifer and the next moment she was in his arms. "A good
slave always obeys her master."

Suddenly the door to the apartment was flung violently open. The
Duchess charged into the room.

"Where's that bag of mine?" she demanded excitedly. "There's a ship
sailing for Earth at seventeen-hundred." She dashed for her room.
"Broadway, here I come!"





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