 XIV. When he awakened it was to stare for a day's moment into a pair of blue eyes that looked down upon him in a place of dim light and stuffy atmosphere. The eyes were only vaguely familiar in his befuddled memory. Beautiful eyes, though, and incredibly dear. Aura, he exclaimed, in wondering remembrance, trying to sit up as he grasped her hand. Hush! she warned him, placing a fingertip to his lips. Be quiet now, and perhaps they'll leave us alone for a while. They—did they capture us? He whispered. Are you hurt? We're prisoners, all right, excepting poor father. But they didn't harm me much, outside of the rough handling. The devils—what of Ditas? He was growing stronger by the minute, and now saw that they were in an open-mouthed cave, and that Mado was sitting hunched dejectedly in a corner, his massive shoulders drooping and his head bowed on his chest. Father, they killed him, or aside almost inaudibly. Have you forgotten? We saw the dart strike him, and I—I saw it sticking from his chest—oh car! A dry sob caught in her throat. Yes, yes—Lord! card-grown, sick at heart, with a sudden recollection and full compassion for the stricken girl. He patted her hand with clumsy tenderness as she turned her head and gazed out through the cave-mouth and silence that was fraught with intense pain. She would take it like that, with little to say but with much inward suffering. And then he noticed a fourth occupant of the cavern, a young lad of Titan. Like one of the savages in a small stature and in the large size of his head, he was much lighter in color and his body was encased in a snug one-piece garment of chevronine material of silky texture. And there was a different light in his eyes, the light of intelligence and culture. Who is that?—car whispered. Aura stared when she saw that the stranger was on his feet. Oh! she exclaimed. I'm glad he has recovered. He's one of the civilized ones. They captured him with his ovoid when the second Pteranodon went out after them. Meadow was standing now, endeavoring to communicate with the lad by means of signs and the drawing of crude pictures in the red sand of the cavern floor. The graceful little fellow watched him with understanding and with a smile of amused tolerance. Then he halted, the big Martian, with an imperious motion, addressing him in velvety voice. Not so, he said simply, placing a forefinger on his breast and bowing before the astonished Meadow. Imps of the canals, the Martian exclaimed, grinning delightedly as he cast a swift look at Car and Aura. He's telling me his name. Mine's Meadow, he said, turning his eyes to the king-grey ones that smiled up at him. Meadow, he repeated, placing a huge fist against his own chest and bending his body in awkward imitation of the lad's courtly gesture. They made no attempt to converse in tongues that would convey no meaning, but there was no mistaking the quick friendship that sprang up between the incongruous pair. Meadow was the boy's slave from that moment, and Natsuit looked up to the Martian with all of youth's admiration for his vast bulk and rippling muscles. Suddenly they were without light, and Car saw that a curtain of woven rushes had been dropped over the mouth of the cave. There were soft patting footsteps on every side, and he drew back against the rock wall with Aura clasped in his arms. A sinewy hand grasped his wrist and twisted his right arm free. He lashed out in the darkness and was rewarded by a grunt of pain as his fist contacted with an unseen face. Natsuit's voice rose in anger and Meadow's wrathful bellow was followed by a frightful commotion as he tore into his assailants. They were everywhere in the blackness. These slippery little savages of Titan, their half-naked bodies crowding him and stifling him with their sweaty nearness. Again and again Car struck out, but it was like fighting a horde of squirming and crawling feline creatures that swarmed over him and bore him down by share-weight of numbers. They dragged Aura from his arms and quickly overpowered him. Thongs of rawhide twisted deeply into the flesh of his wrists, and he was hauled forth into the daylight. Securely tied hand and foot, Car was propped up sitting with his back to a huge boulder. He saw they had been carried to the place they had viewed in the disc of the Ruledon. A dozen paces away, Aura and Meadow sat similarly bound. The Martian had been gagged as well, and Car was forced to smile despite the seriousness of the situation. His mad bellowings must have proved as painful to the ears of the red dwarfs as his fists to their bodies. Natsu, unbound and walking, proudly erect, was being marched to the edge of a smoking fissure by two of the strangers. No others of the red men were in sight. It was the place of sacrifice they had seen in the Ruledon, and the natives were in hiding as before. Natsu would be the first to go, then Aura, most likely. He strained desperately at his bonds when he realized the awful significance of their position. It was incredible that Aura was here, and in the hands of these unspeakable monsters. Why, she'd be thrown into the incandescent fields of the Flapping Fire-God, along with the rest of them. He groaned in an agony of self-recrimination. He should not have allowed her to come on this mad voyage. Then came that roaring column of flame from out of the crater, and the weird fluttering thing whose intense heat radiated across the intervening space like the breath of a blast furnace. The rumble of drums commenced, and thousands of the red men dashed over the rocky area to worship at the shrine of their pitiless God. As their monotonous chant rolls high, Natsu was rushed to the edge of the pit. The ghastly, shimmering heat-gulse drifted hungrily to await the flinging of the slight form into its consuming embrace. Kar was glad to see that Aura had turned her head. And then there came a sucky noise from the depths of the crater, and the pillar of blue flame vanished abruptly, the incandescent ghost-shape flapping disconsolently in its wake. The chant of savages trailed off into a chorus of disgruntled murmurings, and the booming of drums died down in disappointment. The worshippers had been cheated of their sadistic pleasure. There was something wrong with the timing of the right. Their mysterious fire-god had granted the captives a reprieve. But the prisoners were not deceived by the solicitous treatment accorded them by their captors when they were returned to the cave, and their bonds were severed. For well they knew that at the next appearance of the phenomenon of the pit they would be dragged off to the sacrifice. Sooner or later all of them were to meet the fate of those given into the embrace of the heat demon. A guard of fifty or more of the savages, armed with blowguns and stone hatchets, paraded continuously before the mouth of the cave, as one of their numbers returned with a huge, woven container of fruits and nuts of strange form and color. This was set before them, and the bearer withdrew. Mato grunted. Seems like they want to fatten us up for this heated cheat of theirs. Like hogs, fatten for the market. But he reached for the striped yellow melon atop the heap, and, at a bright knot of approval from Natsu, bit into a smooth skin. Carr's stomach rebelled when he looked at the food. He could not bear the sight of the stuff, sitting there in the damp cavern with aura's blue eyes regarding him in the dim light. Those wide eyes held a gleam of hope and trust that would not be discouraged. He gazed out through the cave mouth and calculated their chances. There were none. Not against that horn of barbarians. There were too many of the devils to fight with their bare hands. If only they had their ray pistols or a torpedo projector. At least they could sell their lives dearly. His eyes narrowed speculatively when they came to rest on a peculiar egg-shaped object that stood out there in the open. It was Natsu's ovoid. Here was an idea. But he saw that its entrance door was open and that the space inside was too small for any of them excepting one of the small stature of the tight knees. It was cramped with machinery. Natsu was the only one of their number who could squeeze into the thing. In fact, he alone knew how to operate the queer-flying machine. There must be others of his kind. Plenty of them. Another country. Or a city full of them at least. Perhaps he might obtain aid if only he could be made to understand, and if they could get him out of there safely somehow. Meido, he called, pointing. Do you suppose we could dope a way out of getting Natsu aboard his sky-vehicle and go for help? The Martians stared. His mouth stuffed with food and his jaws in full action. He strained suddenly to swallow the huge mouthful so he could make reply. Not a chance, he grunted. Why, there's a million of them out there. You won't catch them napping. But he turned his attention from the basket of fruit and made a desperate effort to convey the idea to Natsu, whose bright eyes took in his every significant motion, and whose sensitive fingers traced images in the sand that conveyed his own thoughts to the mind of the Martian in rapid succession. He's got it. Meido gloated. The game little cuss would go in a minute if we could get him to the Ovoid. He's got a picture of the big island here, so help me. An island covered with circular dwellings, made of metal like the Ovoids. He indicates, look here. Karand Aura moved over to watch the swift sketching of the tight-knees lad. By means of pantomime and his carefully drawn pictures, he told them of his people, making it clear that they were forced to live in insulated dwellings and travel only in the Ovoids, which likewise were insulated against the devastating vibrations that emanated from Saturn's rings. He sketched those rings, illustrating the vibrations and tapping his own forehead in explanation of the effect on the brain, pointing to the savages to indicate the ultimate fate of his kind. The protective insulation, it appeared, was not permanent. Sooner or later all of them would become barbarians like the others. The savages out there were their fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers, gone mad. Their skins darkened by continued action of the vibrations after they fled their insulated homes. His pictures of the family life were meticulously drawn. His people never wore it upon the savage kin of theirs, naturally, though the reverse was not always true. However, Natsu pointed to the Ovoid and showed his willingness to help the strangers. But he shook his head sadly as he counted the barbarians on his fingers, multiplying the number endlessly by clapping his hands. There were too many of them. The thing was impossible. Good Lord! Kar exclaimed. He's a marvel at communicating his thoughts without words. But I'd think his people would beat it for the hills without waiting. Mind as well have it over with. But they're still working on the problem, or objected. With their wisdom they'll finally get the thing under control, and they probably hope to discover a way of restoring their maddened relatives. She was doing something with the red sand, wetting her fingers in a trickle of water that oozed from the wall and making a red paste which she smeared on her white forearm and then rubbed off. I guess you're right, Kar admitted. Then, watching her strange performance, he asked, What are you doing? She looked up with sparkling eyes and stretched forth her arm. It disdains, Kar. See? She exclaimed excitedly. We can fix up Nassu to resemble one of the savages. It is the exact color of their skin. Mado, he called, sensing at once the possibilities of her discovery. They could make up Nassu to perfection. Mingling with the barbarians unsuspected, he might get possession of the ovoid. The Titanese fell in with the idea at once, and the two men started to work on him with water and the powdery stuff they had taken for red sand. They stripped him of a silken garment and smeared him from head to foot, Kar taking special care to see that his upper body and face were thoroughly covered. Then, after using his own clothing to swab off the coating, they stepped back to view the result. He was exactly like one of the red men in color now, and he stood there twisting his face in a wicked grin to heighten the similarity. The little devil, Mado chuckled. He guessed the idea perfectly. We'll have to muss his hair now and fix him up with a curtain like theirs. Removing his suede jacket and turning it inside out, he draped it about the slim hips of Nassu, then slapping his chest approvingly. There you are, lad. He told the Green and Youngster. A tough looking kid we've made of you, too. The words were lost on the young, tight knees, but his bright eyes showed that he fully comprehended the humor as well as the gravity of the situation. The improvised covering would pass without question, as one of the untanned hides the barbarians wore dangling from their waists. The disguise was faultless. Aura had been watching at the mouth of the cave. Now she called out in low-voiced warning, Hurry! One of them is coming. Car moved forward swiftly to face the opening, while Mado stood with his great bulk hiding the now unrecognizable Nassu. The savage entered, proceeding directly to where Car was standing. He bent over the fruit basket and then the earthman was upon him. The wiry red man struggled furiously, but Car had a grip on his windpipe that stopped his attempts to cry out and quickly seduced him to a state of flabby subjection. Then he bound and gagged his captive, tearing strips of linen from his own shirt to provide the necessary material. In a moment they had bundled the trust-up dwarf into a corner of the cavern, and Nassu stepped forth blithely to lift the basket to his shoulder. Everything seemed to happen at once after that. Nassu stalked boldly out among the savages, who paid him no attention whatsoever. He passed out of their field of vision for a moment, and then they saw him at the circular door of the ovoid. In a flash he was in sight, and the thing soared speedily into the air and out of sight. The red men broke forth in a babble of excited jabbering, and then they were crowding into the cave. Hundreds of them it seemed, shrieking their rage as they attacked the hapless prisoners. Car went down fighting madly, but to no avail. He hadn't counted on this. He should have known better. A crushing weight of them was upon him, clawing and beating at him as he struggled to rise. They were suffocating him with their rank animal odors. And then he was dragged into the open air. Battered and dazed he saw they had found their fellow, the one he had bound and gagged. Laura was considerably must up, but unharmed. He observed with relief. But Madel lay there inert. This was the first time Carr had ever seen him take the count at the hands of man. When they had untied the one whose place had been taken by Natsu, he came straight for the earth man, and would have brained him with a huge stone, had not his fellows interfered. He objected strenuously, his eyes red with hate and a torrent of harsh gutterls pouring from his lips. But the others held him off. This strange white giant from the machine of the skies was to be safe for the embrace of the fire-god. With the entire blame for Natsu's escape thus placed upon the terrestrial, Aura and Madel were returned to the cavern and left un-molested. But Carr was prodded into moving over against a boulder and was surrounded by a semi-circle of the dwarves who squatted calmly to watch him, blow guns in their hands and stone hatchets on the ground within easy reach. They were taking no more chances with this one. The long day of Titan dragged interminably, but the watchful eyes of his guards never strayed from their prisoner. At any moment the fire-god might make an appearance, and the rite of sacrifice take place. Carr supposed that the thing made more or less regular appearances, like a geyser of earth. And next time there would be no escape. Night fell, and still those eyes watched intently in the light reflected against the low-flung clouds from the seething crater nearby. Nothing had been seen of Natsu or any of the Ovoids. Probably it was useless to expect them. They could not bring themselves to do battle against the savage kin of theirs. Anyway, he was glad the little fellow had gotten away. He hoped he was safely in bed, if they had beds in those insulated dwellings. He could not sleep. All through the night he sat with bowed head, alternately planning rescue attempts and cursing himself for bringing Aura to this horrible end. Ditas was dead. The Nomad was hopelessly beyond repair for many days. Even if they could make their escape and locate it, Natsu had saved his own skin, and they were left to the mercy of these vibration-crazed brutes who waited there in the flickering red twilight all around him. It was a revolting ending for an adventure that had started so auspiciously. With the first faint light of dawn came the roaring of the pillar of flame from out of the crater. Instantly there rose the hollow booming of the drums and the chanting of thousands of the barbarous worshipers. The place was swarming with them almost instantly, and Carr's guards closed in on him with evil glee. Aura was brought out into the open. Her arms held fast by two of the red devils who yanked her roughly along between them. Carr roared out in blind rage and in awful fear for the girl. He struck out viciously into the first grinning face that pressed nearer. Something in his brain seemed to snap then, and he became a snarling, fighting animal, battling against overwhelming odds in defense of his mate. A dart buried itself in his arm and a stone hatchet bit into his shoulder, but he scarcely felt the hurts. All that mattered now was Aura. They were taking her away, taking her to the fields of that incredible hot thing that flapped there at the crater's rim. An arm snapped like a pipe stem in his fingers, and he heard the squeal of pain from somewhere in the tangled mass of savages around him. And then they were falling back, easing up on him. The din was increasing, but it seemed that a note of fear had crept in to replace the exultant frenzy of those chanting voices. The drums were stilled. Wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, he saw the barbarians running everywhere. They were screaming in superstitious terror and fighting one another in their desperate anxiety to escape the vicinity of their precious fire-god. A tremendous voice boomed out over the hubbub, a voice that came from the crater in vast commanding gutterls that struck terror into the souls of the panicky barbarians. Yet somehow that mindless sonorous voice carried a familiar ring. Car raised astonished eyes to the pillar of blue flame and was seized with a well-nigh uncontrollable impulse to flee with the red men. For a monstrous image of Ditas swayed there in the hot vapours. A massive arm raised menacingly and an equally robbed denagian voice issuing from his lips in fiery syllables of the red man's tongue. Ditas, Car shouted. Ditas! Aura, my dough! And then he was running toward the crater's edge in bounding strides that carried him twenty feet at a leap. He understood now. Ditas had recovered from his wound and was reversing the Rulden's energy. He was projecting his own image and voice, many times amplified, into the column of fire to terrify the savages. Aura was laying there on the rim of the pit. She had fainted at the sight of the ghost shape, whose white-hot folds flapped there, reaching to engulf her in their all-consuming embrace. Car babbled like a madman as he pulled her away from the horrible thing that pulsated with eager fluttering not three feet away, its hot breath singeing her silken lashes and brows. Meadow was there, encouraging him and yelling something else he couldn't understand, pointing skyward. And then he sought, the Nomad, with its sleek, tapered cylinder of a body nosing down to board them with the silvery aura of its propulsive energy gleaming like a beacon of hope against the dull clouds of the satellite of terror. And there was something else, one of the ovoids of Titan, clinging there to the vessel's hull-plates, alongside the open manhole. Natsu had not failed them after all. His mind refused to question the miracle further. Somehow, when the vessel landed, he managed to reach the manhole with his precious burden. He staggered through the passageway and into their stateroom, tenderly stretching aura on her own bed. In the next instant he was rummaging in the medicine-closet. He found ointment for her burns, smelling salts, damp cloths. With trembling fingers he ministered to her, a great joy welling up within him as he saw she was recovering. Another minute, back there at the crater, and he'd have lost her forever. He swallowed hard at the thought, his eyes misty as he looked down at her and remembered. Impatiently he jerked the barbed dart from his arm, and poured a powerful antiseptic into the open wound, unmindful of the pain. As best he could, he disinfected his other cuts and banished them. Aura had raised herself and now sat there, swaying weakly and regarding him with anxious gaze. A little later they made their way forward to the control room. The nomad had taken off and was drifting slowly higher. At the control sat a strange, bedobbed figure, Natsu. Meido was peering through the coils of helix of silver ribbon that had been erected beside the rolling. Father, Aura darted past him and dropped to her knees on the floor-plates at the Martian side. The body of Dedus was slumped there aghastly corpse within those gleaming coils, but his kind features were fixed in a serene smile. He had gone to his reward with content in his heart. Only then did Car remember. One could not subject his body to the reversed energies of the Rulden without certain expectation of death. A few short seconds with those terrible oscillations surging through his bean, carrying the amplified visual and oral reproduction through the ether, and the European scientist had perished. Knowingly, willingly, Dedus had given his life that the rest of them might live. Recovered miraculously from his first serious injury, he had done this magnificent thing deliberately and gladly. A great lump rose in Car's throat as Aura's sobbing came to his ears. With his vision blurred by tears, he turned to the pilot's seat, where Natsu faced him with solemn eyes. Natsu, go now. The amazing young Titanese stated, he spoke in holding syllables of Kos, the language of the inner planets. Car stared agape, scarcely believing his ears. Dedus, great man, Natsu continued, relinquishing his seat to the day's dearth man. Natsu, find him in ship. My people already there with him. They want to help when you come. Return after capture and he'll dart wound of Dedus. Bring wire and help him fix the motors. Work very quick, my people. Dedus have brain machine. Talk with Natsu, teach him words, also very quick. Natsu, tell where you are and come to help. Then he scare away red men and die. That is all. Now I go, and you go also, quickly. So that's how it happened, Car muttered, slowly mauling over the amazing things he heard. He watched the Titanese lad keenly as his eyes wandered in Meido's direction. He saw the admiring light that came into them as the big Martian removed the body of Dedus from the helix and carried it gently away. Wait a minute, he interposed, as Natsu made as if to leave. Meido would like to talk to you. Must go soon. The youngster drew himself up proudly. Natsu is prince of his people, they need him. And you, you must go at once. Vibrations of mother planet's rings work on you too long already. Must be quick. Help you be wild men, like those down there. He waved his arm in a gesture that embraced all Titan. Anxiety was written large on his countenance and his gaze traveled nervously to the door through which Meido must return. The big Martian was not long in coming. He had carried the body of Dedus aft, leaving Aura there with her dead. Karshard ached for her. He knew how silently and terribly she suffered. Knowing that her father had been healed off his deadly wound by the friendly Titanese, only to be taken from her afterwards by his own heroic act made the blow doubly hard. Later they would give Dedus a decent burial, sending him through the airlock to drift aimlessly in space, preserved through the ages by intense cold and the absence of air, a fitting tomb for the noblest of the vagabonds. Meido chattered endlessly with Natsu, who was impatient to be off, seeing that it was impossible to detain him and realizing at last the stern necessity of hastening their own departure. He finally let him go. The youngster bid Karshard a sober, friendly farewell and followed Meido to the airlock. Karshard heard the clang of the manhole cover as it swung home, and was bolted to his seat. The old boy drifted away from the vessel and dropped toward the forest beneath them. Natsu had gone to rejoin his people. His fingers strayed to the controls. They must get away from the evil influence of those vibrations. He had felt something of their degrading power in the fighting down there. He had almost become a savage himself. He remembered with a revulsion of feeling. The feel of the levers brought him to a renewed sense of confidence and responsibility. A while back he thought he'd never perform such simple duties again. The nomad responded instantly and rose swiftly to hover over the pit of the fire-god. The flame had partially subsided and the ghost-shape wobbled there, changing form rapidly with darkening colors. Some weird phenomenon of nature that those brutes had set up as a deity. Karshard increased the repulsion energy once more and the nomad shot skyward like a rocket. Through the floor-port he saw Natsu's tiny ovoid scutting over the treetops. Then it had vanished. We're getting away none too soon, said Meido, rejoining him. Right. Karshard watched the temperature indicator as he increased speed to the maximum they could withstand in the atmosphere. They were out above the cloud layer then, and he cast apprehensive eyes on the enormous flat disks encircling the great globe that was Saturn. Something like a hundred and seventy thousand miles across them, he remembered. But the astronomers of the inner planets had little actual knowledge of their composition. They knew nothing at all of their terrible power or their strange inhabitants. The nomad left Titan with tremendous acceleration now, as he increased the speed of the rejuvenated generators. They'd go on, on toward Uranus, Neptune, anywhere, away from this ring-planet that was responsible for the death of one of their number, away from the region that was soon to become the tomb of Dedus. There was silence then as the nomad raced on through the blackness. Meido gripped the rail of the port and peered long and earnestly at the tiny pinpoint of light that was now Titan. Great kid, that Natsu, the Martian said after a while. Too bad he couldn't come along with us. Yes, Kars was thinking of the different life there would be on board the nomad, and well he knew that Meido was thinking of the same thing. The Martian had missed the close companionship of his terrestrial friend since his marriage to Aura, missed it more than he would admit, even to himself. And the lad Natsu had appealed to him. He would have fathered him as only a lonely bachelor can. Suddenly Kars' own friendship for the big fellow seemed a wonderful thing. Never mind, old man, he whispered, reaching over and gripping Meido's hand mightily. We'll be a three-cornered family, Aura and you and I. And who knows, but that you'll find the one and only girl yourself some fine day. Oh, shut up, Meido grunted. But a big hand closed down hard on Kars' fingers, and the earthmen knew that their friendship was more firmly cemented than ever before. End of Section 14 Section 15 of Four Science Fiction novellas This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Four Science Fiction novellas by Harold Vincent. Balkan's Workshop, Part 1 Savagely cursing, Luke Fenton reeled backward from the porthole. His great hairy paws clapped over his eyes. No one had warned him, and he did not know that total blindness might result from gazing too earnestly into the sun's unscreened flaming orb, especially that body not more than twenty million miles distant in space. He did not know, in fact, that the aether ship was that close. Luke had not the faintest notion of the vast distances of the universe or of the absence of air in space which permitted the full intensity of the dazzling rays to strike into his optics, unfiltered saved by the thick but clear glass which covered the port. He knew only that the sun, evidently very near, was many times its usual size and of infinitely greater brilliance. And he was painfully aware of the fact that the fantastically enlarged and blazing body had seared his eyeballs and caused the floating black spots which now completely obscured his vision. Stumbling in his blindness, he fell across the hard cot that was the sole article of furniture in the cell he had occupied for more than two weeks. Lying there half-dazed and with splitting head, he cursed the guard who opened the inner cover of the port, cursed anew the fish-eyed Martian judge who had sentenced him to a term in Vulcan's workshop. Several of Luke's thirty-eight years had been spent in jails and sentry other penal institutions devised by earthmen and Martian for the punishment of offenders against the laws of organized society. And yet they had failed to break his defiant spirit or to convince him of the infallibility of his creed that might makes right. Nor had they taken from him the guerrilla-like strength that was in his broad-squat body, the magnificent brute lustyhood that made him a terror to police and citizen alike. Instead, the many periods of incarceration had only served to increase his hatred of mankind and his contempt of the forces of law and order. Especially was he contemptuous of the book-learning that gave the authorities their power. As the pain-back of his eyes abated, Luke could see dimly the shaft of light that slanted down from the porthole to the bare-steel floor. His sight was returning, yet he lay there still, growling in his throat, his mind occupied with thoughts of his checkered past. Steel-worker, mechanic, roused about. He had worked in most of the populous cities of earth, and had managed to get into serious trouble wherever he went. It was his boast that he had never killed a man except in fair fight. And yet, at thirty, finding himself wanted by the police of a half a dozen cities of earth, he had signed up in the black gang of a tramp-ethership bound for Mars, knowing that he would never return and not carrying at all. At first he had been riotously happy in the changed life on the New World. There had been plenty of soul-satisfying brawls and plenty of chulco, the fiery Martian distillate. On his many and frequent jobs there were excellent opportunities to rebel against authority, and he had foremen at numerous mutinies in which he was always victorious, but which usually landed him in one of the malodorous Martian jails for a more or less extended stay. Then had come that final fracas in the Kalpu foundry on the bank of Canal Pyramus. Overly optimistic, Luke's new boss had struck out at the chunky, red-headed earth man during an inconsequential argument, and had promptly measured his length in a sandpile as a ham-like fist crashed home in return. They had picked up the foreman and taken him to the infirmary, where it was found that his skull was fractured and that he had little chance for life. There were the red police after that, and Luke, single-handed, trounced four of them so soundly and thoroughly that some one sent in a riot-call. It had taken a dozen of the reserves to club him into submission at the last. It was too much for Martian justice. In pronouncing sentence the judge had termed Luke an incurably vicious character and a menace to society, such as the planet had never harbored. And Luke, his head swathed in bandages from which his wiry hair bristled like the comb of a game-cock, had grinned evilly and snarled his defiance. And so they were taking him to the dread prison-camp known as Vulcan's Workshop, a mysterious place of horror and hardship from which no convict had ever returned. Vaguely Luke knew that it was located on still another world, away off somewhere in the heavens. He had seen the lips of men go white when they were condemned to its reputed torture, had heard them plead for death in preference. Yet its tears had not awed him, they did not awe him now. He had beaten the law before, he'd beat it again, even in Vulcan's Workshop. A key rattled in the lock and Luke Fenton leaped to his feet, facing the barred door with feet spread wide and with his massive shoulders hunched expectantly. He could see now, with much blinking and watering of his still aching eyes, and he looked out with sneering disapproval at the three guards in the corridor. They were afraid of him, singly, these Martian cops, even though armed with the deadly dart-guns and with shot-loaded billies. So afraid, Luke chuckled inwardly, that they had kept him from the other prisoners throughout the trip, kept him in solitary confinement. The door was opening and it came to Luke that the aether ship was strangely unholy silent. The rocket tubes were stilled, that was it, and even the motors that drove the great ventilating fans had been stopped. They had arrived. No time now to start anything. He would have to submit, tamely, to whatever they might meet out to him in the way of punishment, until he got the lay of the land. It would require some time to study things out and to plan. But plan he would, and act. They'd never hold him here until he died of whatever it was that killed men quickly in Vulcan's workshop, not Luke Fenton. Solidly docile, he was prodded forward to the airlock. A draft of hot-feeted air swept through the corridor, carrying with it the forewarning of unspeakable things to come. And a shriek of mortal tear wafed it in from outside, by the stinking breeze, told of some poor devil already demoralized. The thick muscles of Luke's biceps tightened to hard knots under his black prison jacket. They were outside then, and Luke essayed a deep breath, a breath that was chokingly acrid in his throat. He coughed and spat. One of the guards laughed. Any foul epithet that might have formed on Fenton's lips was forgotten, in the sight that met his eyes. A barren and rugged terrain stretched out from the landing stage, a land utterly desolate of vegetation and incapable of supporting life. Pock marked with craters and seemed with yawning fishers, from which dense vapors curled, it was seemingly devoid of habitation. And the scene was visible only in the lurid half-light of flamestot mists that hung low overall. In the all too near distance, awesomely vast and ruddy columns of fire rose and fell with monotonous regularity. For the first time Luke experienced something of the superstitious fear exhibited by even the most hardened criminals when faced with the term at Vulcan's workshop. That term, to them, meant horror and misery, torture and swift death. And he too was ready to believe it now. He was prodded down an incline that led from the landing stage to the rocks below. The guards from the aether ship, he saw, came behind on the platform, and there were new guards awaiting him below. Husky fellows these were, in strange bulky clothing and armed with the highest-powered dart-guns. The other prisoners from the vessel were already down there, a huddled and frightened mass, a squashed pile, almost silent now and watchful of their jailers. Come on, show some speed, tough guy! A guard yelled from the hood of the runway. Think this is a reception? Another of the guards got fought hoarsely, and Luke choked back the blasting retort that rose in his throat. Plenty of time yet before he'd be ready to make things hot for those birds. The runway he observed was a strip of yielding metal that glowed faintly with an unnatural greenish light. He was nearing its lower end when the siren of the aether ship shrieked and he heard the clang of the outer door of its airlock as it swung to its seat. Then he stepped out to the smooth stone slab on which the nearest of the guards was standing. Immediately it was as if a tremendous weight was flung upon him, burying him down until his knees buckled beneath him. He was rooted to the spot by an enormous force which dragged at his vitals and weighed his limbs to leaden uselessness. With a mighty effort he raised his head to look up into the grinning yellow face of the guard, and his thick neck muscles were taught gnarled ridges under the strain. Damn your hide! He howled. It's a trick. I'll break you in two for this, you slob. His huge biceps tensed and his fists came up. But they came up slowly and ineffectually, ponderous things he could scarcely lift. A great roaring of rocket tubes was in his ears then, and the aethership screamed off through the red mists while he dabbed futilely at the leering yellow face, and vile curses rasped between his set teeth at the laughter of the guards. Luke Fenton never had taken the trouble to learn or he would have known something about this planet Vulcan on which he was a prisoner. As far back as 1859 by earth chronology its existence within the orbit of Mercury had been reported by one, L'Escarbalt, a French physician. But other astronomers had failed to confirm. In fact, had ridiculed his discovery, and it was not until some years after the establishing of interplanetary travel in the first decade of the twenty-first century that the body was definitely located. Vulcan, the smallest and innermost of the planets, fills the sun with great rapidity at a mean distance of twenty million miles. Its periods of rotation and revolution are equal, so that it always presents the same face toward the solar system's great center of heat and light, for which reason one side is terrifically hot, and the other, that facing into outer space, unbearably cold. There is no life native to the body, and mankind is founded impossible to exist only in the narrow belt immediately on the dark side of the terminator, the line of demarcation between night and day. Here there are the dense vapors, illuminated perpetually by refracted light from the daylight side and by the internal fires of the planet itself, fires which erupt at regular intervals through many fissures and craters. And it is only under greatest hardship that men can even exist here, what with the noxious gases and the extremes of heat and cold to which his body is subjected. There is no natural source of water or of food, so these essentials must of necessity be conveyed from Mars or Earth by aethership. In spite of all this, man has persisted in establishing himself in the vapor belt of Vulcan for the sake of wrestling from the rocky soil, its vast deposits of rare ores, and a great number of mining operations are continually in progress. All of these are commercial projects and are worked by adventurous seekers of fortune, save only the penal colony known as Vulcan's workshop. But no terrestrial or Martian, however greedy for riches, would dare to remain longer than two lunar months, which is the average time limit of human endurance. Only the condemned remain, and these remain to die. Though hardly more than two hundred miles in diameter, Vulcan is possessed of a surface gravity almost six times greater than that on Earth. This is due to the planet's core of Neutronium, the densest known substance of the universe, a little understood concentration of matter whose atoms comprise only nuclei from which all negative electrons have been stripped by some stupendous cataclysm of nature. And so it was that Luke Fenton, uninsulated from the tremendous gravity pole when he stepped from the charged metal of the runway, was struggling against his own bodily weight, suddenly increased to more than twelve hundred pounds. Doggedly the Earthman pitted his mighty sinews against the force he could not understand. Here was an intangible thing, yet it was a power that challenged his own brute strength, and he exerted himself to the limit in accepting the challenge. With legs spread wide and with sweat oozing from every pore, he heaved himself erect, straightening knees and spine and standing there firmly on his two feet. He's carrying it, came the husky whisper of a guard. This bird is tough! Craftily Luke bared his white teeth, even teeth in a good humored grin. He had seen what they were doing with the other prisoners, fitting them one by one with strange bulky britches, garments that gave forth a faint greenish glow like that of the runway. And each of the men, so attired, was enabled somehow to get his feet easily and walk about as if unhampered by the force which had flattened him to the rocks and which still held Luke's straining body in its grip. The yellow-skinned guard, a terrestrial of Asiatic origin, was solemnly engaged now in lacing the slitted legs of a similar garment to Luke's rigid nether limbs. Yet there was no cessation of that awful weight when the thing was done. The guard stepped back and leered wickedly. He had slung his dart-gun over his shoulder, and now produced a slender black tube which he leveled at Luke's midsection. You walk now, Fenden, he snarled. The earthman rose upward as if he would leave the ground. Two or three inches seemed added to his stature, and his muscles trembled from the sudden release. He stepped apace forward. Then a light beam flashed forth from the black tube, and Luke sagged down with an astonished oath, squeezed grunting from his throat. The swift renewal of the inexplicable force that caught him off balance, and he dropped anonymously to his knees. Ha! gloated the Oriental. It is thus we control the tough ones, Fenden. I've given you a warning. Now get up and march. On the last word came blessed release and the return of Luke's strength. He marched, meekly falling in with the file of new prisoners. He even smiled through the red stubble of his beard. But black hatred was in his heart, and renewed determination that he would get away from this place somehow, alive. Time would show him the way. Fenden's slow but retentive mind absorbed many things during their succeeding few days. There was neither night nor day in this hellish place. Only the flame-lit mists. But they had clocks like those on earth, and you worked fourteen hours on the slope or in the smelter and had the rest of each so-called day of twenty-four hours in which to eat and sleep. The food was coarse, but there was plenty of it. There was only water to drink, lukewarm, stinking stuff, doled out sparingly in rusty tin cups. And during the sleeping periods you were required to take off the gravity insulated garments and sleep-in huts with insulated floor coverings. The charged floor, of course, allowed you to sleep without being smashed flat on the uncomfortable cots. But they had you safe in these sleeping huts. They took away your clothes and you couldn't step out of the door without taking on the weight of a half a dozen men. The workshop itself was in a vast excavation, from whose slopes a silvery vane door was being removed. There were the blast furnace and reduction plant on one side, and the convict's hut and more pretentious houses of the guards on the other. And the choking mists and the lured flame behind. The stifling heat, Luke learned, too, that every ninth day, with what they called the liberation of Vulcan, there came an equal period of raw and lighting coal to replace the heat. As bad or worse, that would be. There were perhaps three hundred prisoners here, Luke guessed, and a guard lauded to each squad of fifteen men. Not many guards force a large number of convicts, but enough. The weird gravity of Vulcan had taken care of that, and the flashlight things they always carried, queer lights that would instantly neutralize the translating property of his clothing and render a man helpless. Luke was working high up on the slope with a rock drill and pick. The group to which he had been assigned and composed entirely of new prisoners, mostly white men, but with a few blacks and one coppery skinned drylander of Mars. Wimpering, hopeless creatures, all of them, not worth his notice. All day he labored without speaking to any of them, and the quantities of order he removed gave mute evidence of his vigor. If Coulon, the giant Martian guard, took any notice of it he gave no sign. During the sleeping period, which they persisted in calling night, things were different. No guards were needed in the escape-proof huts, and there was some surrepetitious fraternizing among the prisoners. As long as they made no undue noise, they were left to their own devices. But for the most part they went to sleep heavily and wordlessly as soon as they flung into their bunks. A broken-spirited lot. Luke saw men suffering from some horrible malady that made them cough and scream and bleed from the nose and mouth. Old timers, these were, men who had survived for as many as three or four months. He saw them, in their agony, beg the guards for merciful death, heard the brutal laughter of their tormentors. Only when they were no longer able to rise from their bunks were they put out of their misery, one by one, of the singing darts from the senior guard's gun. Novak had it, this malady known as XC. Novak, the scarred face, yellow fangrat who occupied the bunk beneath Luke's, and who talked to him in horse whispers long before the others had gone to sleep. It was from Novak that Luke was learning, and the knowledge he gained by listening to the doomed man served only to intensify the flame of hate that smoldered deep in his barrel-like chest. After three red-lit days of grueling labor and three similarly red-lit nights of listening to Novak, he reached the grudging conclusion that escape from this place was impossible. With his conviction there came to him a deeper bitterness and the resolve that he, Luke Fenton, would have his revenge before he went the way of the rest. Perhaps the law had him for keeps this time. It certainly seemed so, but he'd leave his mark on his representatives yet. At inspection proceeding the next labor period, Luke began doing things. The prisoners were lined up and the guards were parading the line, reassigning them to new work-squads, which were shifted and rearranged every third day. Coulon, the big Martian, selected Luke. You, Fenton, he snapped, ten paces forward. Luke grinned but made no move. Amazed, the guards stepped closer. You hurt me, he roared. I'm keeping you in my squad, tough guy. A ripple of astonished comment ran along the line, and the other guards bellowed for silence. Coulon fingered the black tube of his neutral beam, and his broad face was chalky white. Luke advanced two paces, still grinning, and he looked up sneeringly into the grim face that was a foot above his own. That's right, you big ape, he graded. You ain't man enough to fight the way men fight. Gotta use dart-guns or gravity. It was sheer baiting of the big Martian. Fenton was shrewd, and he knew the fellow's kind, quick to resent insult and prouder of their physical size and powerous than of any other possession. He saw the flush that rose to replace the guard's power, saw the huge lith body go tense. Laughing derisively, he completed his ten paces with leisurely aplomb. Speechless with rage, Coulon stood rigid. Fertive booze and a few hoarse cheers came from somewhere in the long line of convicts, and Luke saw several men flattened to the ground by swift darting neutral beams. And then the head of the guard came running from the small bastion. What the hell, he demanded of Coulon, any trouble? Coulon saluted, and his eyes were narrow slits. No, sir, he returned stiffly. No trouble. Eing Luke suspiciously, the senior guard grunted, then moved along the line, and the work of realotting squads went on. It was exactly as Fenton had expected. This Coulon, ahead over him in stature and brought in proportion, was sure in his mind that he could handle the red-headed earthman without resort to weapons, and the taunt as to his physical ability had struck home. In some way, that guard would maneuver matter so the encounter could come about. Besides, he would endeavor to keep Luke in a squad where he would be able to drive him to the utmost. The guards, Novak said, were on the job only a month when they were replaced by fresh recruits, and their pay was based on the productivity of the squads they commanded. Coulon had seen that the earthman was a real sapper, were three of the others, and he tried to keep it so. That working period was a highly gratifying one to Luke. With the ranking hatred concentrated and directed at Coulon, he was positively gleeful, and yet he was content to abide his time. He swung his pick and wielded his rock-drill with joyful abandon, so that three men were kept busy before he removed. Coulon, he saw with satisfaction, was sullen and watchful. But no word passed between the two, and the earthman knew that he had planted a seed that was bound to sprout and grow until it bore fruit. At the midday mess it happened. The shifting of men had brought Novak in the same squad with Luke, and they came in to sit at the long table together. Coulon eyed them narrowly from the head of the board. Say, Novak whispered, you got under Cooley's skin, know it? He'll run you ragged. Yes, Luke looked up at the guard, saw he was scowling darkly in their direction, and grinned evilly. I'll run him, you mean. I'll bust him in two if I get my hands on him. He ain't got a chance, I tell ya. I've seen this guy once, take a poke at a guard, and what they'd done to him was plenty. They— With that, the wasted body of Novak bent double and he dropped to the ground screaming. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Luke had seen the same thing happen to several others, and he knew what to expect. It was all over for Novak, or nearly over. Coulon came running and turned the stricken man face up. You'll last another period, he snarled. Get up and eat. He yanked Novak to his feet and shook him as he would a sack of meal. The sick man moaned and begged, his head rolling from side to side, and his eyes filmed with pain. Let me have it, he whimpered. I'm done. I tell ya, Cooley. Get Gannet, if ya don't believe me. Coulon slapped him heavily with the flat of his massive hand. You'll work another period, sewer rat, if I have to prop you up. Then Luke Fenton took a chance. He didn't care particularly for Novak, nor was he overly concerned by what might happen to him. But this gave him an excuse, an opening. He hooked his thick fingers in the collar of Coulon's jacket and twisted, until the big Martian loosed Novak and whirled around. Then Luke drove a hard fist to his jaw, a pulled punch so as not to betray his real strength. Nevertheless it set the guard back on his heels and split the taut skin where it landed. Pandemonium broke loose in the mess-hall. Gannet, the senior guard, came bellowing down the aisle, and the squad guards were on their feet in an instant, neutral tubes and dart guns ready. The uproar of the prisoners died down. Coulon shook his shaggy head and crouched low as he circled the earthmen. Murder was in his heart, and the urge to break this tough guy Fenton with his bare hands. But Gannet was between them. Hell's bells, he yelled! What goes on here? Then he saw Novak and heard him. Novak was writhing on the ground, begging for death. And the chief guard's dart gun twanged as its needle-like missile sped forth and drove into the sick man's breast where it sang its shrill song of vibratory dissolution. In the twinkling of an eye where Novak had lain was only the dust of complete disintegration and a few scintillating, dancing light-flex that swiftly snuffed out. A speedy and merciful end. In the silence that followed Gannet turned on Coulon. Why didn't you send for me? he demanded. The guard, white with rage, indicated Luke. So the tough guy Fenton again. Can't you handle him? Coulon jello eyes flashed fire. Sure I can, I will, but I want your permission, sir, with my hands. No, flatly. And then Gannet whirled to look over the mess tables, whence a few scattered hisses had arisen. His gaze was solemn when he returned it to Coulon. Swiftly his black eyes measured the Martian giant's body, and then they swung to Luke. The comparison evidently pleased him, for he changed his mind. On second thought, yes, he said to Coulon, it'll be good for discipline. Only don't disable him, he's too valuable a worker. Luke concealed his unholy glee, stood glowering savagely. In a fair fight, he put in. In a fair fight, sneered Gannet. He took personal charge of Coulon's weapons. All right, you, he yelled then to the mess. You can watch this. But if there's a sound or a move from any one of you, there'll be the neutral broadcast, and full gravity for an hour for the hopefully bitten gang of you. He drew back, motioning Luke and Coulon to an open space nearby. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind as to the outcome, for the Martian towered over his stocky opponent and was fully fifty pounds heavier. This irregular procedure would put a stop to some of the open homage paid to this reputed tough guy by the prisoners, and to the restlessness among them which is coming had occasioned. They fought instantly and with silent deadliness of purpose these two. Luke drove in two terrible blows to the big Martian's body in the split second before they closed, breath-taking punches that rocked Coulon, yet did not slow him up in the least. And then the tangle of arms and legs and bodies of the two was so swift moving and violent that the watchers could not follow them. Now they were up, slugging, clenching, now down, rolling over and over, straining and tearing at each other like beasts of the jungle. Once, breaking free, Luke was seen to batter Coulon's face to a bloody mass with swift, hammering fists that thutted too rapidly to count. And then the Martian had flung him to the rocky ground so heavily that it seemed certain the earthmen's end had come. But such was not the case, for there was a flailing, cramble, and Luke Fenton rose up with the great body of Coulon across his shoulders. He spread his legs wide and heaved mindily. The Martian guard kicked and squirmed, lashing out with his huge fists at the squarely-built and squarely-planted body of the earthmen below him. But to no avail. Grasping a shoulder and a thigh, Fenton straightened, his thick arms and Coulon was hoisted aloft. Amazingly then, the madly struggling guard was flung out in a way to land with the sickening thud, smashed and crumpled on the rocks. Luke stood swaying on those spread-eagle's legs and his lungs were near bursting from the exertion in the noxious atmosphere. There you are, Gannet! He howled through swollen lips. That fair enough for you? In the ominous silence a cracked voice yelled, What a boy, Fenton! While disorder followed. Immediately there was the raucous call of the general alarm siren and a flashing light from the bastion that paled the red mist to a sickly luminous spink. Full gravity coming down with crushing force on the hapless prisoners. Luke, as he was flattened, gasping painfully under the enormous pressure, saw that Gannet and the rest of the guards were not affected by the neutral broadcast. They stood erect and moved freely among the prisoners who sprawled everywhere in grotesque squashed heaps. Queer! There was no way of beating the authorities at this game. End of section 15 Section 16 of Four Science Fiction Novellas This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Four Science Fiction Novellas by Harold Vincent Vulcan's Workshop, Part 2 When it transferred Luke to the dreaded sealed cell in the reduction plant, a room spoken of in hushed whispers by the convicts, and in which was reported an inmate suffered indescribable tortures for the better part of three weeks. Then he died in horrible misery, for one could not survive longer than that. Coulon had not been killed. He would recover, but was pretty well smashed up with a fractured hip and several broken ribs, one of which had punctured along. It would be necessary to return him to Mars on the next aether ship, due in two days. Strangely, the news brought Luke no great amount of satisfaction. When they locked him up in the sealed cell for his first period of labor, he saw there was only one other occupant, a tall lanky earthman with narrow aristocratic features and keen gray eyes. He was perhaps forty-five, slightly stooped, and with thin graying hair. Luke had seen him several times at mess, and had contemptuously clasped him as a highbrow. Fuller his name was. This was a small room where several slender shoots brought down tumbling crystals of silvery salt from somewhere above, emptying it into glass containers that stood in endless rows on wooden racks. You filled these containers with the salt, then sealed them in lead tubes and packed them for shipment. There was a faint, pungent odor in the air of the room, a new smell that widened Luke's nostrils and caught at his throat and lungs. In this place you were watched by a guard who came regularly each half-hour and spied on you through a peephole. Child's play, the work in the sealed cell. Luke went at it half-heartedly and spoke no word to Fuller after the heavy door had closed them in. After ten minutes of silence he caught himself watching his companion furtively. What was there about Fuller that marked him as superior to Luke and the rest of the convicts? A good gust of wind would blow the man away. A woman might easily beat him in a rough and tumble. Yet this man had something which unmistakably proclaimed greatness, the same thing that gave authority and power to the smart guys of earth and Mars. Brains, book-learning, Luke snorted. Fuller was looking at him with calmly appraising gaze. Luke scowled darkly, but the keen eyes that measured him did not waver. You're a fool, Fenton, came from the thin lips. What? Luke advanced threateningly. I repeat, you are a fool. Still the grey eyes were unwavering. Why, you, you? Spasmodically Luke's fingers closed down on the spare shoulder with crushing force. By not so much as a flicker in an eyelash did Fuller betray the pain that must have come with that grip. He did not even wince, but swiftly lashed out with a bony fist, raking Luke's cheek with hard knuckles. The blow stung, but it was utterly futile. With a single cuff Luke could send the man sprawling, with a single wrench of his powerful hands snap his spine. Yet he did neither, and the impulse to laugh coarsely died in his throat. Here was the courage of a kind he had never encountered. Here a man whose bright eyes, fearlessness, and defiance mingled with a cool disdain that brought the first real feeling of inferiority Luke ever had experienced. He relaxed his grip on Fuller's shoulder, and his big hands fell loosely at his sides. It was that action which saved Fenton. He did not know at the time, nor would he have believed it. But he was to remember many times and finally to realize it, though he never fully understood. That's better, breathed Fuller, and the ghost of a cell crinkled the corner of his mouth. At the old man's warning Luke returned to his own workbench and was industriously engaged when the guard side showed at the peephole. Then the eye was gone and he grinned over at Fuller. How long have you been in here? he ventured. Five days in the sealed cell, ten altogether in the workshop. Luke pondered this. How did you get in the cell? Same way you did. I struck a guard. No, Marvel Luke. I mean to tell me you. I had good reason to get in here. Fuller broke in mildly. You—you wanted to get in? Luke was incredulous. I did. My God! You ain't crazy! You wanted to get yourself killed off quicker? No, that isn't it. Fuller explained patiently. I've a plan to escape, and only by taking the chance of spending some time here could I obtain access to the necessary materials. Fenton, I'm a scientist and I know. Escape! Luke snorted. You are crazy. Where you gonna go? Listen, Fenton. The other dropped his voice. I'm not doing this blindly. I have friends outside. And you can help me. You can get away yourself alive. I called you a fool and by that I meant that you have relied too much on brute force in your lifetime, and not had sense enough to realize that this brought only trouble. Combine your brawn with my brains now, and do as I say. If you will, I promise you freedom. Will you do it, or do you want to keep on being a fool? Luke bristled, but the earnestness of that steady gaze served to check his rising temper. I still think you're nuts, he growled, but hell, I ain't full enough to pass up any kind of chance of getting out of here. Give me the dope. Fuller coughed slightly and a fleck of red-tinged foam appeared at his lips. It'll have to be to-day, he whispered, one more day in this place and it will be too late for me. XC. Luke stared, horrified. Fuller had it already and didn't know it. Poor devil. He was a goner before he started this crazy break of his. Strangely, Luke was deeply concerned. It was a new experience, this feeling of compassion for a fellow man. Today, he grunted, you ain't figuring on getting out to-day. Positively, it must be to-day. I'll explain. Much of what followed was unintelligible to Luke Fenton, but he absorbed enough of the scientist's explanation to understand that his plan was not impossible of realization. He waxed enthusiastic. Tom Fuller was vague concerning his own past, but Luke gathered that a political crime had been responsible for his sentence to the workshop. There was much bitterness in the scientist's refusal to dwell on this point. This, too, Luke was able to understand. The bond between them strengthened. It's like this, Fuller told him. These suits which enable us to move about comfortably in Vulcan's gravity are really quite simple in their functioning. A maze of fine wires is woven into the fabric, and these wires are charged with anti-gravity energies from tiny capsules which are inserted under the belt of the garment. The capsules are really miniature atomic generators and are replaced with fresh ones overnight during the sleeping period, since the initial charge lasts only 18 hours. The generated energies neutralize more than 80% of the effect of gravity and our weight thus becomes approximately the same as it is on Earth. Such garments are worn by all the prospectors and other visitors to Vulcan. How come the neutral beams? Ask, Luke. They are used only here in the workshop, and they operate the same as the neutral broadcast from the bastion, the only difference being that the broadcast blankets an area of about two miles in all directions. In both cases, vibratory ether waves are sent out, and these are of such frequency in waveform as to neutralize the anti-gravity engines originating in our capsules. They render our suits useless, but those of the guards are provided with insulated coverings which block off the waves and thus permit their own garments to function even when the neutral broadcast is in operation. Smart guys, commented Luke. Too smart. How the devil are we going to get away then? They'll send out the alarm and—ah, that is where we fool them, Fendon—with the radium. Radium? Yes, didn't you know? This or we mine here contains a higher percentage of that valuable element than any on earth or Mars. Its emanations, together with certain atmospheric gases of Vulcan, are what cause XC, a swift destruction of tissue in the lungs and other vital organs. And this concentrate, Fuller waved his hand toward the rows of tubes before him, is most highly radioactive of all the products of the workshop. That is why the sealed cell is so very dangerous to work in. But it is this radioactive salt that gives us the means for escape. Both men turn quickly to their labors on hearing the footsteps of the guard. My suit is already prepared, continued Fuller, when the eye had gone from the peephole. Now to prepare yours. I discovered that this radioactivity can be used to defeat the purpose of the neutral waves as well or better than the regular insulation, which of course we cannot obtain. That is why I wanted to be in the sealed cell for a time. We merely pack a quantity of the radioactive salt around the capsules in the lining of our garments, and the radium emanations continue the excitation of the tiny atomic generators, even under the influence of the neutralizing vibrations. Do you follow me? Yes, Luke did comprehend, even though the technical explanation was beyond his understanding. They would be able to defy this terrible gravity of Vulcan. They could fight unhampered, walk or run, to meet these mysterious friends of Fuller's. The flashlights in the broadcast would be useless against them. The lanky scientist outlined the further details of his plan in swift whispers while he worked with the energizing capsule of Luke's garment. Actual escape was surprisingly easy. They waited until the labor period was finished, when Chandae, the yellow-skinned guard, came to unlock the door. As agreed, Tom Fuller came out first and Luke held back, dragging his feet and cursing softly to himself. What'd you say? Snarl the guard. Luke grinned disarmingly. Nothing, he drawled. Still he hung back, scarcely moving from where he stood just within the door. Come on, tough guy, a little speed. Chandae reached for him. And then Luke was upon him. The neutral beam flashed harmlessly. Luke's big hands moved with lightning swiftness, his left one scooping the guard's dart gun from his shoulder strap and his right closing on the astonished Oriental's windpipe. It was the work of only an instant to choke him in unconsciousness and lock him in the sealed cell. Quick! The shoot! hissed Fuller. He dived head foremost into a rectangular wooden trough that was used for the disposal of the gang from a crushing mill above. This shoot, Fuller had said, led the outside at the back of the reduction plant. Across the passage Luke saw a squad of convicts and two guards emerging from the lift. Then he plunged down the steeply inclined trough after Fuller. As he slid and tumbled into the darkness, he heard the horse shouting of the guards. He landed heavily in the pile of gang at the base of the shoot. Then was scrambling and slipping down with an avalanche of the sharp-edge stone. At the bottom he saw that Fuller had already started up the slope of the great pit which enclosed the workshop. Luke darted after him. They were hidden from the bastion by the buildings of the smelter and reduction plant. But the loud yelling of the guards back there in the pit gave evidence that word of the scape was being passed along to Gannett. Before they were halfway up the slope there was the shriek of the alarm siren, and Luke felt his body sag with a sudden increase of weight. Fool that he had been to trust the scrawny scientist! Is the broadcast, panned Fuller beside him? There is some effect, of course. You're probably carrying fifty extra pounds. Huh? Luke hoped it would be no worse. Fuller slipped into a narrow crevice that ran slant-wise of the slope and extended upward to the rim of the pit. The going was much easier here, and they made rapid progress toward the top. Suddenly Luke realized that it was growing very cold. There was a bite to the foul air, and moisture from the red mist was frosting his beard. The liberation of the tiny planet and consequent shifting of the terminator was bringing frigidity to Vulcan's workshop. They came up out of the crevice at the top of the pit, and Luke could not resist looking back. Every convict in sight was flattened to the ground. They sprawled singly and in heaps, each one a squoished inert thing that would not move again until the neutral broadcast was discontinued. The guards, confident they would find the escaped prisoners in light condition, were searching the slope below them. Duke raised Chanda's dart-gun to his shoulder. Fuller struck aside the muzzle of the weapon. No, he protested. No unnecessary killing, Fenton. They're completely fooled, and will be well on our way before they know the truth. Grumbling, Luke drew back from the rim of the excavation. Up here the ground was fairly level, but there were many fissures and small craters which made the footing precarious. The mists were so dense they could see scarcely two hundred feet ahead. We'll be lost in the vapors when they finally wake up and come out after us, Fuller said. And look, Fenton, off there to the left are the three columns of fire that mark the rendezvous. They plunged on through the red mist toward the flaming pillars. Those beacons, even though they subsided at regular intervals, quickly reappeared after each cessation. And their brilliance penetrated the mess with ease at this distance of about two miles. There was no fear of missing their destination. Sure your friends will be there? Luke asked doubly. He was beginning to have some misgivings about the matter. The scientist had been anything but explicit as to who these friends were. And the longer his thoughts dwelled upon the things, Fuller had told him the more suspicious he became. Pretty cagey about everything but the actual getting away from the workshop, Fuller had been. Certainly they will. They've been waiting two days. Fuller's tone was impatient and his words came painfully. You leave that part of it to me, Fenton, he gasped. There was a fleck of blood at his lips. As the scientist stumbled on through the mists, Luke's doubt increased and he began to lose his work for the man's intellect and for the cunning which had enabled him to outwit the neutralizing energies used by the guards. After all, he was a weak and puny specimen. They all were. The smart guys who held the people of two worlds in their power by exercising the knowledge they had learned from books. And this one had failed even in that. What every might have been, he had run afoul of the law himself and was already a doomed man. Tricks. This trick of Fuller's had gotten them away, but of what use was it without the brute force necessary to carry on to a successful end? The brawn Tom had spoken of so slightly was what they needed from this time on, and nothing else would save them. Luke had that brawn. Fuller did not. The scientist slipped and nearly lost his balance at the edge of a corner, but Luke made no move to help him. It was every man for himself at this stage of the game. Increasing difficulty came with every step. Now they were sliding and rolling into a deep crater, now scrambling up at steep sides with hands torn and bodies bruised by the jagged boulders. A yawning crevice opened before them and they were forced to skirt its edge for fully half a mile in the wrong direction, before they found a crossing. And the cold was unbelievably intense. Numbed and silent, their eyes half blinded and lung seared by the frosty air. They struggled on toward the three pillars of flame. And still Tom Fuller carried on, though Luke was now in the lead. They had covered probably half the distance to the flaming columns when shouts arose behind them. The guards were on their trail. Can't find us, Fuller panted. The mists. Hell, the mists are clearing, Luke snarled. You ain't so damn smart as you think. What he said was true. Though there was less light on the account of the new angle with the sun farther below the horizon, the red mist was definitely lighter in color, noticeably less dense. Visibility was good to several hundred yards. Luke turned his head, but could see nothing of their pursuers. They can't. Fuller insisted weakly. Luke pushed on with renewed vigor, ignoring him, cursing. And then there came faintly to his ears the twang of a dart gun, the shrill scream of its deadly vibrating missile, a violent blow that flung him headlong. Like a cat he bounced to his feet, crouching with chandais dart gun at his shoulder. A strangely grotesque heap was at his feet, Tom Fuller. Off there in the thinning mist he saw a shadowy figure and he fired at it twice. Whether his darts found their mark he was never to know, for a wall of white swept down suddenly to obscure his vision. Snow! Great mast flakes falling endlessly. The moisture of the mist crystallized and closing in on him to hide him even more safely, then had the mist themselves. He was on his knees then at Fuller's side. A brilliant flash and a screaming roar over amongst the rocks appraised him of the fact that the guard's dart had gone wide. And yet Fuller was down, moaning with pain. Luke tried to turn him over and found that his body had taken on tremendous weight. He was flattened, crushed to the rocky surface of Vulcan by the full force of its gravity. What the devil! he grunted as he heaved and strained. What'd they do to you, old man? With great effort he succeeded in turning the scientist face up. Then he saw what had happened. He knew in a flash that Fuller had saved him from the singing dart whose energy was making a sizzling puddle of the stones where it had landed. The missile in passing had carried away the belt and part of the fabric of Tom's garment, carried away the capsule and the radion that energized it. Made the thing worse than useless. And Fuller had done this for him. He had flung himself upon Luke to shove him out of the line of fire, risking his own life gladly. Lucky the deadly dart had missed his body. But... You go on, Fenton. The scientist was whispering through lips that were blue and stiff. Leave me here. I'm licked. But you can carry on the work. Go to my friends and tell them everything. Tell them what you saw back there. Tell them. Shut up! Luke's words were softly growled. There was a new and utterly uncountable huskiness in his voice as he straddled the prone body and locked his strong fingers underneath. You ain't gonna be left behind, he grunted. We're going on, brother, together. His back straightened and Fuller was swung clear off the ground. His huge biceps tensed and the scrawny scientist was up in the air, up and above the bowed head, then let down gently to rest across the broad shoulders of Luke Fenton. Fuller hung there, bent double by the immense weight of him, crushed to painful contact with the taut muscles that carried the strain. On earth, Fuller might have tipped the scales at a scant one hundred and thirty pounds. Now his sagging body was load in excess of seven hundred weight. With that load upon him, and gloring in the effort it cost, Luke staggered on toward the triple red glow, which even in the blinding whiteness of the snowfall marked the location of the columns of fire. That all feeling had left his limbs in the deep-biting cold meant nothing, that his lungs were near bursting under the terrific strain meant even less. Luke Fenton had found a man, one he would fight for, not against. And miraculously he had found himself. After that there was a blur of interminable torture. Reeling and stumbling, his leg and back muscles shot through with stabbing pain as the frost worked slowly upward. Luke prodded doggedly ahead. An occasional shout came from far behind where the guards still searched the Rocky Plateau. Across his great shoulders, Luke's burden was a dead weight, of corpse-like rigidity and stillness. Yet Luke clung to it tenaciously, disposing the drooping leaden limbs as comfortably as possible by the judicious spreading of his own brawny arms. Fuller, he was sure, had not long to live in any event. Xc had already progressed to such a point that it was hardly possible he could recover. And yet these smart guys like Luke always had detested, the doctors and surgeons and such. They might be able to do something for the poor devil. Anyway, he determined. He'd get the scientist to his friends dead or alive. And he'd see to it that they treated him right. If they didn't, the red glow was suddenly very bright and a silvery metallic shape loomed up before him in the whiteness. An aether ship. Luke tried to call out, but his bellowing voice was gone. Only faint gurgling sounds came from his throat. He pushed forward with a savage summoning of his last ounce of energy, and Fuller's weight was that of a mastodon upon him. The curved hull of the vessel was overhead when he slipped and fell to one knee in the thick carpet of snow. Luke saw then then, a dozen strangers running from the open-air lock of the ship. In uniform, some of them—government officials of Earth and Mars. Damn them! It was a trap. Knowing vaguely that they had surrounded him, he let Fuller slip from his shoulders and lowered him gently to the snow. Lurching to his feet, he stood swaying above the scientist's body, ready to defend the helpless man against any who came to take him. Defiant curses died in his paralyzed throat as darkness swooped down to blot out all consciousness. His still-sinnued body, beaten at last, slumped protectingly over the lanky form of his newfound friend. When Luke next saw the light, he stared long and hard at the immaculate white walls and ceiling that shut him in. A gentle purring was in his ears, and he knew he was in an aether ship that was under way. He lay weak and helpless beneath snowy covers, on an iron hospital bed. There were voices in the room, hushed, odd voices, and Luke moved his head painfully to stare across the room. Fuller, he saw, was stretched on another cod, pale and still. And a white-clad nurse was there, bending over him, talking softly to a doctor. The words that passed between them brought enlightenment to Luke, and more. They brought a new realization, and understanding, and hope. When the doctor and nurse had left, Luke lay for a long time with his thoughts. There was a man, Tom Fuller. Unafraid, as an agent of a special governmental committee investigating prison conditions, he had volunteered to get the evidence on Vulcan's workshop. And he had done it, even though it was almost certain that his own life was to be the price. He had dared the misery and hardship, dared XC and the horrible death it brought, that this hell-hole of Vulcan might be exposed, that it might be wiped out of existence by government agreement. Vulcan's workshop, where the gold dust of a certain political clique brought torture and disease and extinction to hapless prisoners who might otherwise be remade into useful members of society by the use of scientific methods. All this was to be no more. Fuller had succeeded where many others had failed. And Fuller was not to die. Only one of his lungs had been affected by XC, and this not to extensively to respond to treatment. Many months of careful attendance would be required, and many more months of convalescence. But Fuller, they were sure, would live. Luke gloated. From what he had heard, Luke gathered that there was to be no trouble about his own pardon. Oddly enough, this gave him no satisfaction. Something had happened to him, inside. For the first time he realized his debt to society and would have preferred that just sentence be carried out upon him. But not in that place, not in Vulcan's workshop. Luke shuddered. And lying there, he swore a mighty oath that the remainder of his life was to be devoted to entirely different pursuits. It was not too late to face about, not too late to learn. If Fuller would help him, he would learn. He had required a healthy respect for the book learning he formerly ridiculed, and he wanted some of it for his life, as much as he could get. His old creed was forgotten, and his bitterness vanished. Luke. At the scientist's husky whisper he turned his head. Fuller was gazing at him with wide, solemn eyes. Thanks, Luke, the thin lips murmured. Thanks yourself. Where'd we be right now if it wasn't for your radium? There was silence as they regarded one another. I need you, Luke," Fuller whispered then, in my laboratory back home. I'll be laid up for a long time, you know, and there's much to be done. Your brawn and my brain will both profit. What do you say to that, Fenton? Will you do it? Luke grinned. Will I? Just watch me. Then, with a queer lump choking him, Luke looked away. He could think words to suit the occasion. He couldn't think at all somehow. Blissfully he fell asleep.