And then, to the guard: "Look, Burrage: this is your chance as well as ours."
"My chance—?" The man's eyes rolled as he tried to look far enough round to see her.
"Yes, of course." Veta moved closer. "Did Cheng tell you a batch of Tornelescu's life catalyst was stolen, along with the formulas?"
"It was—?"
"Yes, and it's worth millions—more money than you can even count."
"Where is it?"
"Porforio, on Ganymede."
"Millions, you say—?" The man called Burrage was almost drooling. "I could get you out of here and down to Ganymede for that."
"Then do it," Veta said. And, to Ross: "Here, let me have that." She levered the light-pistol from his hand.
"Hurry! Blast the lock!" Burrage grated. "Another minute, and Cheng may be back!"
"Of course," Veta nodded. "It's just that there's one other detail I want clear before we break out. About Stewart, here."
Ross stared. "What—?"
Coolly, Veta leveled the pistol at his belly. "I'm sorry, Stewart," she said, "but you're coming as a prisoner.
"You see, the man who has that batch of catalyst is my brother, Sanford Hall!"
SMELL OF DEATH
Porforio. Queen city of Ganymede, gem of the outer planets. Bright lights and broad avenues and the graceful architecture of a superior culture, all sealed beneath a gigantic plastic bubble.
Cold-eyed, Ross followed Veta and the man called Burrage as they stepped from the transit belt and approached a low, smooth-lined row of buildings.
Veta said, "The last place is my brother's."
Ross nodded, not speaking, and lengthened his stride.
They reached the entrance. Veta started to step into the warning-beam.
But now Burrage caught her arm. "Oh, no, you don't! We're not about to let him know we're coming!" Then, pulling the girl back, he brought a long, hand-broad, wire-and-plastic tube, a beam-bridge, from beneath his tunic. Deftly, for all his lumbering-ape appearance, he slapped the ends of it over both door-casing outlet tubes at the same instant, so swift and smooth that the umbrian waves' flow was broken by only the faintest ofclick-clicks.
"See? Simple!" Burrage bared stained yellow fangs in an anthropoid grin. "This way, we'll just surprise him." He shoved the door open; gestured. "Stay ahead of me from here on, you two. It's like I say: I really trust you."
Wordless, Ross passed through the doorway, Veta close on his heels.
Sanford Hall's unit was on the second level.
Again, Burrage pushed Ross ahead, then drew his blaster and turned its dial from penetrosion to the impact level. "I'll hit the bolt," he grunted. "The second it shatters, you dive in."
A muffled crash, like that of a gigantic hammer striking. The door burst open. Ross lunged in.
The room was empty.
Now Burrage and Veta joined him. The girl's face was a study in blank disbelief as she stared this way and that. For his part, Burrage walked in ever-widening circles like a caged animal—head thrust forward, long arms dangling.
Ross' lips twisted wryly. He leaned back against the wall.
Abruptly, Burrage halted; turned on Veta. "All right, where is he?" he slashed savagely. "Me, I risk my neck with Cheng an' the FedGov too to come here—an' now your stinkin' brother's not even here—"
He broke off. His brows drew together a fraction, and he sniffed. "This place stinks, even!" he announced vehemently.
Now, Ross, too, was sniffing, straightening. His eyes flicked over the empty room, then fixed on the door of an old-fashioned closet of the pre-sealer period over in one corner.
Crossing to it with quick strides, he jerked the door open.
A stench rolled out into the room. Hastily, Ross shoved the portal almost closed again. "Burrage! Come here!"
The other was beside him in one ape-like bound.
Ungently, Ross shoved him a step to one side. "Get over that way a little. I don't want to open this any farther than I have to." And then. "Ready?"
The other's bullet head bobbed.
"Here goes, then—"
Burrage leaned forward.
Ross jerked the door open once more, swinging it with savage, driving violence. The edge smashed at Burrage's forehead like a poleaxe.
Simultaneously, Ross leaped sidewise, kicking for the back of the other's knees.
The kicked leg went out from under Burrage. Before the man could hit the floor, Ross kicked again—to the temple, this time, short and brutal.
Yet still the man caught Ross' foot ... held it ... jerked him down.
Ross kicked with the other foot—a heel-smash to the teeth.
A guttural, animalistic sound burst from Burrage's throat. Letting go Ross' foot, he clawed forward, grappling.
Rolling across him, Ross clutched for the fallen blaster.
In the same instant, Burrage seized Ross by the hips in a bear-hug. The muscles along his back and shoulders writhed as he drew the grip tighter and tighter.
Ross sucked in air in an anguished gasp. Fumbling, he stabbed at his antagonist with the blaster.
But always the quarters were too close, the danger of killing them both too great.
Burrage tightened his grip. A sound of bone scraping bone came dimly.
Now Veta flung herself into the fray, beating vainly at Burrage's back and shoulders.
She might as well have been a moth on the far side of the room.
Groaning, Ross smashed the blaster down atop Burrage's bullet head.
But the weapon was for shooting, not striking. At the second blow, the light metalloplast alloy shattered.
Veta cried, "Back, Stewart! Roll him back!"
Back bowing, Ross heaved. Together, he and Burrage toppled over.
And now, Burrage's bullet head was close beside the closet door again. Panting and sobbing, Veta swung the portal at the close-cropped skull, slamming it home again and again.
More animal sounds from Burrage. He let go of Ross' hips and, spasmodically, tried to twist away.
Without avail. Ross held him tight.
Another blow from the door-edge ... then another....
Of a sudden, Burrage went limp.
Ross sagged back also, sucking in air in great, lung-deep gulps while Veta cradled his head, sobbing hysterically.
Then, at last, Ross dragged himself up from her lap, and finally from the floor. Unsteadily, he lurched to the closet door, half-opened it, and once again stared into the space beyond.
Veta started to join him. But he shoved her back. "No. You wouldn't want to."
She stared at him blankly. "I wouldn't want to what?"
"You wouldn't want to see what's in there." Ross shuddered. "Smelling it's bad enough."
The girl turned pale.
For now, the stench in the room was well-nigh unbearable.
A hideous stench. The same appalling odor that had permeated the room in which Zoltan Prenzz died.
Ross said, "Go over by the hall door, Veta. And stay there."
Lips trembling, the girl obeyed.
Stiff-faced, Ross opened the closet, then dropped to one knee and peered this way and that.
The thing inside had been a man once. Now, there remained only an oozing heap of protoplasmic horror.
From the far end of the room, Veta said faintly, "Is—is it Sanford?"
"The clothes are his." Ross answered in a toneless voice. "Beyond that, I doubt that anyone could say."
He straightened; turned to go.
And there it was, written in slime, chest high on the door's inner side. 3/111 and the outline of a triangle squared.
Standing so he blocked the closet, Ross swung the door all the way back against the wall. "Veta!"
"Yes, Stewart—?" Quickly, she came to him.
He pointed to the symbols on the door. "Do these mean anything to you?"
"Three one-hundred-elevenths of a triangle squared—?" Brow furrowed, she stared at the inscription for a long moment. "No, I'm afraid it doesn't."
"It does to me," Ross said.
Veta's head came round. "It does—? What?"
"It means we're getting closer." Ross smiled thinly. "And just in case you wonder what we're getting closer to, the answer is; closer and closer to Tornelescu's life catalyst, closer to the formula ... maybe even closer to Adjudicator Pike Mawson."
Veta's eyes suddenly were shadowed. She looked away and bit her lip.
Ross said, "You don't seem very happy."
"Stewart—Please, Stewart...." Veta broke off, lips aquiver. And then, in a shaky, uneven voice: "Can't we forget about them, Stewart—all of them—the catalyst, the formula, Mawson?"
"Oh?"
"Don't you understand? There's death in that catalyst, Stewart—death in it, and everything about it. It's cursed. Anyone who even comes close to it goes.—Like Sanford—"
"I know," Ross said. But the words held no sympathy, no understanding. "Now that your brother's dead, the catalyst's cursed. We should forget about it."
Veta's face came up. She stared at Ross. "Stewart, please—"
Ross kept on as if she hadn't spoken. "The only question is," he clipped, "will some other people forget about it just as easily?"
"Other people—?"
"Yes. People like Commandant Padora of Security, for instance; he's hunting for me, you know. And Cheng—when do you suppose he'll quit? Mawson, too. That man who followed me on Japetus. Astrell. All the others who've got a finger in this pie—" Ross broke off; laughed harshly. "I don't think quitting's going to be as easy as you think, Veta; not by half-a-million light-years."
"But we could run for it, Stewart!" Of a sudden Veta's words came quick and eager. "Even Security doesn't reach everywhere, nor Cheng either. The satellites off the beaten track—even an asteroid with an out-size orbit like Hidalgo's—we could go there. It might be years before they found us, if they ever did."
"True enough," Ross nodded. There was a faint edge of contempt in his voice. "Only I'm not going."
The light in Veta's eyes died. She stared at him in numb silence.
Ross said, "Your brother's dead, Veta. That seems to be all you care about.
"The trouble with me, though, is that I keep thinking about all the other brothers, and the mothers and fathers and sisters and wives and husbands and children too—all the people in this solar system who don't want to die, but who will, just so long as Tornelescu's life catalyst formula stays in the wrong hands."
"Stewart—"
"Whoever's got that catalyst isn't thinking about life, Veta, or people either. He's thinking about power, the same way Cheng and Burrage think about it. He knows that as long as people love life, that catalyst formula can buy the universe for him.
"That's why I'm not going to run, Veta. And that's why I'm going to finish this job, bring in that formula, even if it turns out you're the one who stole it and I have to cut your throat in order to make recovery."
A visible tremor ran through Veta Hall. Stumbling, face averted, she cowered against Ross. "Stewart ..." she whispered. "Please, Stewart, forgive me. Let me go with you. That's all I ask—" And then: "Hold me, Stewart. Just hold me."
Slowly, Ross brought his arms about her. His face was lined, his eyes somber.
After a moment, he said, "We've got to go, Veta. Now. Every minute's precious."
Instantly, the girl straightened. "Of course, Stewart." A smile, tremulous and uncertain. "Where—where are we going—?"
"We'll find out in a minute." Ross stepped over to the wall com-set and dialed a number. A moment later he said, "Mr. Lindgren, please." And then, after another pause: "Peter?—This is Stewart."
A longer pause, replete with sputtering sounds. When the sounds had died, Ross said, "I know I'm wanted, Peter. That's why I'm calling on you: I need help, badly. Otherwise I may not be able to wind up this business, get back that formula. And without the formula I'm in for a sure short-court."
More sputtering. More waiting.
Finally Ross said, "Either you want to help me or you don't, Peter. What I need is any information you can give me on an address: number III of side three, Triangle Square, Calor City, Mars."
Silence. Echoing eternities of silence.
At last Veta Hall whispered, "What makes you think those symbols represent that address?"
"Tornelescu's laboratory was located at number 121, side two. I found that out at the briefing when I took on this assignment."
"Oh."
The com-set again, but with swift, clipped words instead of sputtering.
A thin smile came to Ross' lips. "Thanks, Peter." He flipped off the switch.
Veta's eyes locked with his, her face a wordless question.
Ross' smile grew. A grim smile, without mirth.
"Come on," he rapped. "We're back in business." And then, as he steered the girl towards the door: "Number III's a warehouse owned by the Japetan Trading Coadunate, and Adjudicator Pike Mawson is the coadunate's director!"
ASTRELL
The warehouse at III(3) Triangle Square was sealed up tighter than any tomb. The only windows were those in front, flanking the heavy turn-plate door that opened on the street side.
Narrow-eyed, Ross drew Veta back into a patch of shadow, while overhead Phobos raced Deimos across the sky, the two tiny moons like bright coins against the black backdrop of the Martian night.
For the third time, Veta said, "Stewart, it's impossible. There's simply no way to get in. And even if you found one, what good would it do? No one's there. The place is dark as the Coalsack."
"Maybe." Ross' jaw took on a stubborn set. "Then again, maybe not. But one thing's certain: I didn't lay myself open to charges of everything from grand theft to piracy in forcing that cruiser to set us down here just in order to give up now, without even checking."
Turning, he scanned the deserted square for a moment, then walked briskly across to the warehouse again, following its left wall until—a good hundred yards farther on—he reached the rear end.
Breathing hard, Veta came up beside him. "Stewart, where are you going?"
Not answering, Ross sidestepped the friendly sniffing of a six-legged Martian bak and strode to a box that protruded from the warehouse wall, opened it, and flicked his flamer. Light flared, illumining a neat row of dials.
"What—?" Veta began again.
"Power drain," Ross explained succinctly. "If equipment's running in there, we'll see it on these meters." A pause, while he checked dial after dial. Then sudden excitement sprang into his voice: "I was right, see? Something's going!"
Dubiously, Veta eyed the indicator. "Maybe it's an air-wash. Or a heater."
"Those take more power. This is a light or two; a show-screen, maybe." Ross snapped shut the cover of the flamer. "No, Veta. Somebody's in there. So now we'll smoke 'em out!"
Pivoting as he spoke, he stepped to the bak and picked it up, then paused briefly while he manipulated the ugly, six-legged creature's ventral plates.
The bak gave a sigh of vast pleasure and settled deeper into the haven of Ross' arms.
Veta stared. "Stewart Ross, have you lost your mind completely?"
"Probably." Ross chuckled. "Hand me that rock, will you?"
The girl's expression showed her reaction plainly. But, following Ross' gesture, she obeyed.
"Thanks." Ross hefted the boulder thoughtfully. "For the rest of it, all you have to do is stay here."
"Stay here—?"
"Till I get back."
Veta's head came up. Her lips firmed. "And why should I do that?"
"Because I'm asking you to." Ross came closer; slipped his free arm about her waist. "If you want me to, I can even put logic behind it: even though you probably wonder why, I—well, I wouldn't say I hate you. I'd like you to live long enough to give me a chance to prove it.
"On the other side of it, I'm not sure I can trust you. You held out on me about your brother, and his stealing the catalyst. Then, when I found his body, you hardly shed a tear. Maybe that was nervous exhaustion. Or relief that finally, for good, he was off starak. Or, maybe, you just hated me so much there wasn't any room left for tears.
"Anyhow, regardless of the angle, I want you here, not with me."
Veta's shoulders began to shake, harder and harder. Tears welled and overflowed her eyes; coursed down her face. She brought up a hand and bit at it, as if only thus she could hold back her fury!
"Rack you, Stewart Ross!" she choked. "Rack you! Rack you for a chitza—"
Again, the shaking. The bak under Ross' arm stuck out its thick, prickly tongue to catch the falling tears.
Ross said, "Now you won't feel so bad if I don't come back. And just to make sure you stay here and obey orders—"
He stepped back quickly. The hand that had been about Veta's waist knotted into a club-fist. For the second time in the brief hours that he'd known her, he brought up a short, hard blow that snapped the girl's head back.
Then, catching her before she could fall, he brushed her lips gently with his own and laid her gently in the shadows along the base of the next building.
That done, Ross straightened. Almost casually, he strolled to the front of the warehouse, tugging at the bak's ventral plates as he walked, so that the creature gave out a steady stream of contented sighs and hisses.
Ahead, Triangle Square spread out before Ross. With seeming unconcern, he glanced right and left.
Still no one in sight.
Shifting the rock Veta had picked up for him to his right hand, Ross paused long enough to work the bak into a comfortable position.
With cool deliberation, then, he stepped back and hurled the rock with full force at the nearest of the two warehouse windows.
A crash. The window shattered.
Ducking close, Ross kicked away the shards along the sill. A quick, wary step, and he was over it and inside the warehouse office ... fading back into the nearest corner.
Somewhere close at hand, a latch clicked. A black oblong opened in the wall across the room.
Ross went down on his haunches. Deftly, he slid the bak out away from him, along the floor.
Six-plate-rimmed feet made small, slithering sounds as the creature darted through the darkness.
Like lightning, over by the black oblong, a paragun whished faintly as the purple beam leaped from its muzzle.
Swift, silent, Ross crept along the wall in a flanking movement.
Simultaneously, off to one side, the bak ran wide in sudden panic.
Again, the paragun spoke.
But the marksman was shooting at his visualization of a man, not an underslung, six-legged, alley bak. As before, the shot went far high.
This time, though, Ross was closer. Coming up fast to full height, he leaped in, grappling for the weapon. The edge of his right hand came down on the other's gun-wrist with smashing force.
The blow tore a choked cry from his opponent's throat. The paragun clattered to the floor.
Before Ross could leap in, the other whirled and fled. Snatching up the paragun, Ross followed.
Down a broad corridor and past a brightly-lighted room they ran; then on into utter darkness. When a crash of jangling metal echoed ahead, Ross fired at it.
A body fell with a sodden thud. Cat-silent, paragun at the ready, Ross ran toward the sound.
He tripped and almost fell across his adversary in the darkness ... a dead adversary, now.
Not quite steadily, Ross flicked on his flamer ... stared down into the other's face.
It was the man who'd been at Zoltan Prenzz' place; the man who'd later tried to run him down as he headed for Naraki's.
A check of the man's pockets revealed nothing whatever of importance. Bleakly, Ross turned him over.
The move threw the flamer's light onto the stacked cases beside which the dead man lay.
Ross took one look. His hand jerked back by sheer reflex. Hastily, he snapped shut the flamer's lid.
His victim had died resting against row after row of fifty-gallon plastidrums of deadly, hair-trigger steron auxiliary flare-fuel, designed for use in atmospheres where nothing else would burn!
Unsteadily, Ross rose and made his way back to the area close to the lighted room.
A switch-box loomed in the dimness. Ross threw the whole bank.
Like magic, light came to the warehouse. Cases appeared, piled high on either side of long, echoing aisles. Overhead, two catwalks—accessible by ladders—ran the length of the building, one above the other.
For a moment Ross stood brooding. Then, quickly, he disconnected the lines that served the warehouse lights, leaving only the set that supplied the office area.
Moving into the lighted room, next, he looked about.
A case stood on the central table ... a neat black plastic cube perhaps six inches high.
Ross suddenly had trouble with his breathing. Not too steadily, he crossed to the table and opened the black cube.
A bracket in the top held a shiny aeroderm injector. Beyond that, the contents resembled a honeycomb—a honeycomb whose each cell was a glistening, hermetically-sealed plastic ampule.
Stiff-fingered, Ross closed and sealed the cube again and, gripping it tightly beneath his arm, hurried back to the office next to the street, the one through which he'd entered via the broken window.
In the darkness, something slithered. Ross jumped, then halted, grinning wryly. Going to the outer door, he unbolted and opened it.
Plates rattling, all six feet slithering, the bak scurried out into the night.
Warily, Ross once again surveyed the square outside.
It still seemed deserted. He started forward.
Only then, before he could so much as cross the threshold, something gouged into his back. A familiar, too-dulcet voice said, "No, Thigpen."
Ross stopped short. "Astrell—!"
"Of course." The woman laughed gaily. "You see, Thigpen, I get what I want. I have that kind of perseverance."
Ross said nothing.
"Back, now. Close the door and lock it," Astrell continued. And then: "Aren't you wondering how I got here, dearest? Just this once, haven't I surprised you?"
Ross shrugged.
But apparently no answer was needed or expected. Astrell went on talking anyhow:
"Let's go back where the lights are, Thigpen. I'm dreadfully tired of standing in the dark. And—oh, yes, I found that address on Sanford Hall's closet door too. I must have been right behind you. I'd arranged in advance to meet Sanford, you know—that's why he'd stolen the catalyst, so I'd give him money to buy all the starak he needed for the rest of his life. So I figured out the message, of course, since I'd been to Calor City often years ago, and knew all about Triangle Square. My cruiser put me down here even before you. In fact, I was watching when you broke in—"
Abruptly, Astrell stopped talking long enough to push Ross into the lighted office. She gestured to the black cube with one puffy hand. "Is that it? Is that the catalyst?"
Ross drew a quick breath. "No, it isn't."
"Don't lie to me! Of course it is!" Astrell's beady eyes grew bright above their pouches. "I'm going to have it right now! I'm going to be young again. You'll see!"
"Will I?" Ross set the cube down on the table. "Or will I just see you drop dead in your tracks?"
"Drop dead—?" The woman's eyes widened. Her wrinkles cut deeper. "You're trying to scare me, aren't you?—To frighten me into giving up the catalyst after all that I've gone through to get it!"
"You think so?" Ross asked tightly. "Let me tell you a few things about this stuff. At the end Tornelescu perfected it, yes. But no one knows whether this batch was made before or after that. At the very best, it's tricky. Not because of the catalyst itself, but because everybody wants fast action. So, Tornelescu made it fast: he tied it in with a metabolic speeder, so that the whole cell structure of your body would change in hours or minutes, instead of weeks or months or years. If it worked, you'd be young in a hurry.
"The only trouble was, if it didn't work, it killed you. That's how Tornelescu got on Security's 'wanted' list. He was too eager. He tested new batches on living human beings; he didn't care how many died while he was working out the proper balance."
Astrell's voice rose. "You lie! You lie!" Her pudgy hands were shaking also. Her face looked as if it were going to crack and fall apart.
"It's up to you," Ross shrugged. "If you think it's worth the gamble, go right ahead and take your chances."
Eyes haunted, Astrell stared at him. "You ... you really think it ... might kill me—?"
Wordless, Ross shrugged again.
Only then, sudden in the stillness, a new voice sang out.
Or, rather, in terms of other than this time and place, an old, familiar voice.
The ugly, snarling voice of Cheng the slaver.
"I'm coming in, you—Thigpen, or whatever your name is!" he shouted fiercely. "Don't try to stop me. I've got your girl in front of me: she'll take the first blast!"
Ross went rigid.
"You! You hear me?"
"Yes. I hear you."
"Stand back, then!"
Ross swept the room with one desperate glance.
It gave him no answers. It didn't even provide shelter. For now, looking up, he saw that the offices actually were part of the storage area, chopped up and cut off with eight-foot, unceilinged partitions.
Cheng again: "You better have that catalyst this time, you chitza! That's what I'm here for. If I don't get it, you won't live to tell it."
Now Astrell looked up, her face a study in unnatural pallor. "The catalyst—he means to take it!"
Ross didn't bother to answer.
Astrell cried, "I won't let him! He can't do it!"
Cheng: "Your woman dies if you try to shoot, Thigpen! Just remember that!"
Astrell: "I'll take it! That's it, I'll take it now! They say even one injection makes you young!"
She stumbled forward. Claw-like, her fingers tore at the black cube with the catalyst, the injector.
"Stop it, you old fool!" Ross clipped. He reached out to tear the black box from her.
Without warning, Astrell let go the case. It left Ross hanging momentarily off-balance.
Then, before he could recover, she struck out at him with the paragun she'd held on him earlier. The barrel hit him in the jaw, just below the ear.
Stunned, he lurched back.
Astrell ripped the cover from the black case. Snatching out the injector, she forced an ampule into it and with trembling fingers triggered the spray through the skin of her blue-veined arm.
As if it were a signal, Cheng appeared in the doorway, Veta Hall held in front of him as a shield.
Astrell laughed wildly. "Come ahead!" she cried, arms spread in a caricature of welcome. "You wanted the catalyst. Here it is. Take it. I don't care. I've had mine—enough to take care of me for years...."
Her voice trailed off. An expression of vast surprise spread across her face. Her pudgy hands sagged to her sides.
And then, incredibly, she was changing, changing. Before the others' very eyes, wrinkles began to fade, the slackened skin to firm and fill.
Her body, too—a youth, a slim litheness, came to replace the sagging rolls of flesh not even corsetry could successfully conceal. The auburn hair lost its dull, artificial glitter and, rippling, took on a glow, a natural sheen.
Ross sagged back against the table. The livid scar on Cheng's cheek twitched and quivered.
Astrell laughed aloud; and now, for the first time in the hearing of those present, the sound held warmth and vibrance ... the laugh of a woman, not a crone. Rising on tiptoe, she lifted her hands high above her head, stretching. Her face, her lips, her eyes, her whole body—they were suffused with a stunning, dazzling beauty.
"Do you wonder now that they married me?" she cried triumphantly, pirouetting. "Seven of them, the richest men in all the outer planets! And lovers—how many lovers did I take? Now I'll have more—more husbands, more lovers! Because I'm young again; I'm beautiful...."
Without warning, her voice trailed off. Her lovely face mirrored sudden shock.
Disregarding Cheng's leveled gun, Ross stepped in quickly; caught the woman's arm. "Astrell! What's wrong?"
She didn't answer. As swiftly as they had come, the gayness, the buoyancy, seemed to have gone out of her. Flat-footed, she stumbled towards the table.
Only then her knees hinged. She started to fall.
Ross levered her arm up, bracing her.
His hands seemed to slip, to slide away. The woman sprawled on the floor. Her breath came in hoarse, labored gasps.
Blankly, Ross looked from her to his hands.
Where his fingers had touched Astrell, slime now dripped from them ... the same hideous, stinking ooze that had marked the corpse of Zoltan Prenzz, the death of Sanford Hall....
Ross' eyes lifted to stare momentarily at Cheng and Veta in numb, dumb horror, then flicked back to Astrell once more.
Astrell, a beauty no longer. The features of her face sagged loose and shapeless. Her body seemed to dissolve into the floor.
And everywhere, the ooze, the ooze....
A final, sighing breath. Life left her.
Choking, Ross stumbled to a corner and tried to scrub the slime from his hands with a ragged jacket that hung there.
Behind him, still poised in the doorway with Veta, Cheng said grimly, "Don't try anything, Thigpen. You're worth money to me. I don't want to kill you."
"That's right, Ross. Oh, absolutely right!"
It was a voice out of nowhere, coolly mocking, familiar yet distorted. Ross, Cheng, Veta—they all turned, startled.
The voice again: "As a matter of fact, Ross, you're even more valuable to me than to Cheng. That's why I'm taking over."
Ross looked up sharply—really up, into the echoing, empty, catwalk-spanned reaches of the warehouse that stretched above the ceilingless partitions of the office rooms.
Adjudicator Pike Mawson's grav-seat hovered there, high above them. Smiling, sociable, he nodded to Ross.
But there was nothing pleasant or sociable about the paragun in his hand. It stayed steady and unwavering.
"As I said, my dear Ross," Mawson murmured, gesturing with the weapon, "I'm taking over."
He pressed a button in the flying chair's control-arm as he spoke.
The seat plummeted down into the room.
THIEVES' HONOR
It was one of those moments when everything happens at once. For as the grav-seat dropped, Cheng whipped up his gun, firing at Mawson.
Veta Hall screamed.
Ross lunged across the room towards girl and slaver.
Somewhere outside, a blaster sang its twanging, metallic song of death.
Ross crashed into Veta and her captor. Driving his shoulder between them, he jerked the girl from Cheng's grip, even while he smashed a blow to the outlaw's midriff.
Cheng stared straight ahead—eyes bulged out, jaw hanging. His hands stayed at his sides.
Ross drew back a quick step, uncertainty written on his face.
Cheng swayed for a moment, first forward and then back.
The next instant a violent shudder, plainly visible, ran through him. His paragun clattered to the floor.
Another second and the smuggler himself half-turned and spilled forward on his face.
There was a hole in the small of his back where his spine had been—a hole well-nigh the size of a man's head, the sort of hole torn by a blaster-bolt.
Veta covered her face. Ross clenched his teeth.
Simultaneously, two men stepped into the doorway. One carried a short-barreled blaster, the other a paragun. Both wore grins of sadistic satisfaction.
Now, off to one side, Pike Mawson spoke again: "Good work, gentlemen, though a trifle close. If that beam Cheng triggered had sliced three inches lower, you'd have had to find a new employer."
Mawson moved a dial on his chair's control-plate. The grav-seat swept round in a smooth spiral and set down on the floor in front of Ross.
"Mr. Ross, I believe?" he murmured, eyes asparkle. His face was set in a peculiar way that made him appear on the verge of smiling.
Ross' features stayed wooden. "My name's Thigpen."
"It is?" The adjudicator chuckled, gestured. "Corrack, is this our old friend Tornelescu's helper, Lewis Thigpen?"
A snort from the man with the blaster. "Not even in the dark, he ain't Thigpen."
"You see, Ross?" Mawson spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Corrack grew up in the same colony with Thigpen. He knows him intimately—drank kabat with him less than an Earth week ago, as a matter of fact. So there's really no point to your trying to continue the imposture."
Ross shrugged, not speaking.
Mawson said, "On the other side of it, I've succeeded in learning your real identity, though it cost me no small expense: you're Stewart Ross, and you hold the rank of special agent with Security. You're twenty-eight years old. You came from Earth, originally. Your most recent assignment was breaking up a theol ring on Titan. You've also dealt with the starak traffic, and with kabatol derivatives in the Uranian satellite system. Your luck has been so spectacular as to indicate real ability, and in consequence your superiors—even including the famous Commandant Padora—have marked you for special attention and advancement."
A pause. Mawson's fingers drummed on his chair-arm. "That's why I'm here, Ross: because I've learned your identity; because I know the kind of man you are."
"Oh?" Ross' tone was flat and noncommittal.
"Yes." The adjudicator gave strong positive emphasis to the word. He leaned forward. "You see, Ross, I overstepped myself on this life catalyst venture. Badly."
Ross' eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
"In any case," Mawson went on coolly, "I finally find myself in a position where I have no choice but to make a deal with you ... a very special sort of deal, one I wouldn't chance with anyone less reliable and trustworthy."
Ross frowned. "I don't follow you, Mawson."
It was the other's turn to shrug. "It's very simple really, Mr. Ross. My own age, the sense of years creeping upon me, prejudiced my judgment. So, thinking you were Thigpen, I sent Cheng to Venus to run you down." The adjudicator shook his head sadly. "It was an error, Mr. Ross—a grievous error. Guile's my forte; I never should have turned to violence."
"I'll agree with you there," Ross nodded, "but I still don't see how this concerns me."
"Don't bait me, Mr. Ross!" the other snapped back. "That first episode tipped my hand to Cheng, and to Veta Hall, and to Veta's brother, Sanford. The next thing I knew, even Zoltan Prenzz, Security's resident undercover agent on Japetus, was aware of what was going on.
"That meant I had to kill him. So, I sent one of my men to inject him with a dose of the catalyst—a dose from a bad batch my people found in Tornelescu's laboratory when they cut his throat and made off with the formula to begin with.
"But violence breeds violence. Veta Hall's starak-crazy brother stole the bad batch, thinking it was good, proposing to sell it to Astrell.
"I sent my man to get it back. Also, I ordered him to kill Hall, because Hall would have talked in order to get starak.
"Unfortunately, though, Hall managed to pass on my address here before he died. At which point, you came and killed my man, and Astrell died of acute catabolic poisoning, and my people attended to that cutthroat Cheng." Once more, Mawson spread his hands in the familiar gesture. "Well, Mr. Ross, I believe that brings us up to date."
"Does it?" Ross clipped. "It seems to me you've left out the most important part: the place where I come in."
"For my part, I thought I was being almost too obvious," the adjudicator came back. "My difficulty is that as a result of all this bloodletting, my own tracks have been uncovered. I'm told on reliable authority that Security's already closing in on me. I'll be fortunate if they don't arrest me before dawn."
Ross frowned. "So—?"
"So, as I said before, I need your help."
Ross shook his head. "I still don't see it."
"Then you're a bigger fool than I thought!" Mawson beat his grav-seat's arm in sudden fury. "Don't you understand? When my people brought me Tornelescu's notes, his formulae, I'd have sworn I had the whole universe in my grasp.
"Only then it turned out that all Tornelescu's data was in an arbitrary code: one figure, one symbol, was substituted for another. Consequently, I might as well not have had the papers.
"That's why I sent Cheng after you, when I thought that you were Thigpen: Tornelescu's notes mentioned that Thigpen had the code. It was a precaution they took, so that neither of them could betray the other."
"So?" Ross repeated.
"There's still a way out. That is, if you'll just help me." Mawson squirmed in his seat. Of a sudden his eyes were bright and feverish. "Look, Ross, here's how we'll work it: in your role of Security agent, you arrest me. I'll even go so far as to confess to murdering old Tornelescu.
"However, I'll also claim that Sanford Hall stole the papers from me. Consequently, I've no idea whatever where they are or what they say.
"I'll be convicted of killing. They'll send me off to Venus Barracks. In a Martian month the case will be past history.
"That's where you come in, Ross: right then. My conviction will be another feather in your cap. No one would think of suspecting you of anything, let alone denying you full access to Security's files on the case.
"So, you go into those files and dig through them till you find the code. For all I know, it may even be in your property rooms here in Calor City. Because if Lewis Thigpen's dead—and he must be, or you wouldn't have dared to use his name—then all his things will likely be there.
"Then, when you find the code, contact me. I'll tell you where I've hidden the formula: that's how much I trust you.
"You make up a batch of the catalyst. You put it out to the old men, the men of power."
"I'll be free of Venus Barracks in a week. After that—who knows? What limit can there be, when we've eternal life ourselves, plus the privilege of peddling it to others in hundred-year doses?"
The adjudicator was shaking by the time he finished. Twin spots of color marked his cheek bones. His hands moved ceaselessly, without respite.
The silence echoed.
Mawson's hands stopped moving. He straightened in his seat.
"Mr. Ross," he said softly, "I'm afraid I judged you too well. You're indeed a man of honor—so much so that even a lie to save your life sticks in your craw. So I'll put our business on a different level." A pause, heavy with tension. "Mr. Ross, count on it: if you don't carry through to the letter the plan I've outlined, both you and Veta Hall will die, by the most unpleasant mode a fine creative imagination can devise."
Ross seemed to stand a trifle straighter. "I thought that was coming," he nodded slowly. And then: "Fair enough. I'll do all I can to locate Thigpen's things."
"I thought you'd see it my way," Adjudicator Mawson murmured smoothly. He gestured to the two men who still stood in the doorway. "Now that I'm a prisoner, gentlemen, you'd best get out of here. Take the girl with you. You know where to keep her."
The man with the paragun stepped back. But the other, the one called Corrack, didn't move.
Sharply, Mawson said, "Corrack! You heard me!"
"Sure, I heard you," the blaster-man agreed. He grinned, the same sadistic grin that had marked him when he first stepped into the doorway. "Only maybe there's something you don't know."
"Something I don't know—?" Mawson frowned. "Speak up, Corrack! What is it?"
The other's grin broadened. "It's this starbo," he explained, gesturing to Ross. "It's his clothes."
"His clothes—?" Mawson stared. "Well, what about them?"
"Nothing," smirked Corrack. "Nothing at all—except they're the outfit Thigpen was wearing when I had that drink with him last week!"
Mawson's head snapped round as if on veloid bearings. "Rack you, Ross—!"
But his tone belied his words, for there was wild jubilation in it. Pounding the air of his flying chair, he cried, "Search him, Corrack! Search him! See if he's got a writer!"
Wordless, the blaster-man obeyed ... delivered the instrument to Mawson.
Fingers shaking, the adjudicator manipulated the upper end of the carved shaft.
The cap lifted off. A glistening ampule dropped into his hand.
Mawson threw back his head and laughed—peal after peal, hysterical with sheer delight.
Then, sobering, he snatched the aeroderm injector from the table where Astrell had dropped it. Fitting in the ampule, he held the jet against his arm-vein.
"There were some interesting details in Tornelescu's notes, Ross," he announced in a voice that rang with exaltation. "One of them was that Thigpen always carried an ampule of the perfected catalyst in his writer."
He pressed the injector's plunger. The ampule's contents sprayed into his arm.
After that, it was like the time with Astrell, except that Mawson was male, not female.
And, that the process stopped at the proper point, instead of going on into catabolic disaster.
Young now, in the prime of life, glowing with health except for his crippled legs, the adjudicator leaned back in his grav-seat. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"You understand, don't you, that this changes our situation somewhat, Mr. Ross?" he inquired.
"I understand," Ross answered curtly.
"Good." The other rubbed his hands and chuckled. "As a matter of fact, as I see it, I no longer have any need for your services. Changed as I am, young again, I'll have no trouble hiding till I myself can find or buy Thigpen's code." A pause. "That transforms you, Mr. Ross. It transforms you from an asset to a liability, by my bookkeeping."
Ross didn't answer.
"The same holds for Miss Hall," the adjudicator went on. "Before, she constituted an excellent pawn. Now, she's only a dangerous witness."
Abruptly, he turned to the man with the paragun. "You, my friend! Take this injector"—he touched the aeroderm unit—"and two ampules from the black case. Spray one into each of our friends, here."
Ross went rigid. A horrified cry burst from Veta's throat.
Tightly, Ross said, "Look, Mawson, it's all right to kill me if you want to; I signed on with Security because I had a taste for trouble.
"With Veta, it's different. She's done nothing, hurt no one. She'll keep quiet—"
"Hurry it up, gentlemen," Mawson ordered his aides. "I want no accidents to halt us now."
"Back, you!" snarled Corrack, covering Ross with his blaster.
His companion advanced on Veta.
Wild-eyed with panic, she retreated before him ... clear to the wall ... on around the room ... almost to the door now; almost to Corrack.
Whirling, then, she leaped at the blaster-man from behind—clutching at his arm, knocking up his weapon.
"Stewart—" she screamed. "Run Stewart; run! Get away! Call Security—"
Ross lunged. But it was towards her, struggling with Corrack; not the door.
Only then purple light pulsed past his head, so close that his eyes went out of focus. He staggered, tripped, pitched to his knees.
... And there, off to one side, grav-seat already rising, sat Mawson. His teeth were bared, and he held his paragun poised and ready.
Ross started to rise.
Mawson triggered another ray.
Whirling, Ross plunged through the doorway and ran for his life.
WRITE IT IN BLOOD!
Feet pounded behind Ross in the darkness of the warehouse. Dropping flat, he rolled till he bumped against stacked transit cases.
Now, from the office area, a hand torch flicked this way and that, its hard, bright cone of light lancing through the murk.
Ross held his breath. When the beam passed over him and moved on, he wormed his way swiftly along the cases and into the first cross-aisle.
More lights. More wary shuffling. Hastily, Ross made his way to the next longitudinal aisle, then doubled back in the direction of the offices once more.
Almost in the same instant, Pike Mawson's voice cut through the stillness: "Stop! Both of you!" His words were clipped, incisive.
Ross froze in his tracks. His palms were slick with sweat as they pressed flat against the transit cases.
Mawson again: "Get back here, you fools! Don't you understand? That chitza's trying to feint us away from the entrance so he can blast out!"
From beyond Mawson, a second voice mumbled unclear syllables.
"Let him hide!" Mawson cut in sharply. "He'll soon tire of it. The thing to remember is that there's no way out of this place except through the office area; I made sure of that before we took it over. So as long as we stay at this end, our fine friend can't escape."
A burst of guttural elation. Ross' pursuers drew back into the brightly-lighted offices.
For a long moment Ross stood unmoving. Then, as the last echo of the others' clumping footsteps died and the darkness closed in on taut, vibrant silence, he turned. His face was pale and drawn, his breathing shallow, his mouth a thin, grim line.
Moving down the aisle cat-silent, he groped his way to the place his earlier foe had died beside the stacked plastidrums of steron.
Steron, with its deadly methane fumes, and high combustibility, and flaring, 4000-degree heat.
Ross' lips twisted. Dragging out one of the drums, he jerked savagely at the opener tab.
The cap tore away. With a momentary faint hiss of gas escaping, steron fumes spurted forth in a choking, all-enveloping rush.
Ross grinned mirthlessly. With swift efficiency, he dragged out a second drum and opened it also. Then a third ... a fourth....
Turning this last tank on its side, he rolled it full-tilt down the aisle towards the offices, a trail of fumes and liquid spilling out in its wake.
Now, drawing back into a cross-aisle, Ross flicked his flamer and tossed it out onto the snake-like steron trail.
The fumes caught even before the flamer struck the floor. With a roar like the gush of a power hose, fire leaped back to the three open drums.
The explosion as they ignited sprayed flame in a mad starburst that illumined the whole central section of the warehouse. In seconds a thunderous holocaust swirled roof-high.
Ross sprinted for the office area. Scrambling up a ladder to the first catwalk, he peered down into the rooms below.
Already Mawson's men were running for the door to the street. But of Mawson himself, and of Veta Hall, there was no sign.
Breathing hard, Ross moved on along the catwalk.
Now, abruptly, Mawson came into view, racing his grav-seat out away from a spot where two partitions intersected, and into the open area in the center of one of the larger rooms. His movements were jerky, and he sat hunched forward in the seat, an air of tension heavy upon him.
The next instant Veta appeared, darting after the adjudicator. An ugly bruise showed on her forehead. Panting, stumbling, she snatched at Mawson's tunic.
But he dodged and flipped up an elbow sharply, so that it struck the girl in the mouth. Then, as she sagged back momentarily, he swung the chair in, and slammed a palmed paragun flat to the side of her head.
Veta crumpled to the floor ... lay there in a limp, still heap.
Instantly, Mawson whirled the grav-seat away again, racing it up over the room's partitions in a swift, spiraling arc.
Ross held his position on the catwalk like a statue. Only his eyes moved—first flicking down to Veta's motionless form, then away from her and up to Mawson.
Still the grav-seat climbed. Mawson gave hardly a glance to the roaring sea of flame that now enveloped the whole central area of the warehouse. His face was lined and set, his eyes riveted on some spot in the building's upper reaches.
Ross stared after him. Then, turning, once again he looked down at the office area.
Veta Hall still lay unmoving where she'd fallen.
Ross started along the catwalk towards her.
Only then, as if his eyes somehow were drawn by some psychic magnet, he paused in mid-stride and yet another time looked around for Mawson.
Simultaneously, the other's grav-seat came to rest on the second, higher catwalk, close under the roof. Unfastening the seat's safety belt, Mawson thrust his twisted legs down onto the walk, dragged himself to his feet, hobbled clumsily to a nearby switch-box and pulled a lever.
A faint grinding of gears rose above the noise of the fire. Twin roof-plates slid back to reveal a skylight.
For the fraction of a second Ross hesitated. Then, pivoting, he ran for the nearest ladder that stretched upward from his catwalk to Mawson's.
Above him, the adjudicator slapped shut the switch-box and began a slow-shuffling return to the grav-seat.
Ross reached the ladder. Cat-agile, he swung up it, hand over hand, two rungs at a time.
Mawson reached the grav-seat as Ross topped the ladder and scrambled up onto the catwalk.
Now, pausing for a moment as he adjusted the seat's safety belt, the older man—young now—gazed out across the holocaust, a sardonic smile twisting his thin lips. Sweat streamed down his pale face and dripped from his chin. Puffing a little, he swabbed his forehead with his sleeve.
Behind him, Ross silently crept forward through the well-nigh unendurable heat in a half-crouch. His lips were parted, the skin taut and shiny across his cheek bones.
Mawson glanced up at the open skylight. His hand dropped to the seat's arm. His fingers moved over the controls.
The chair lifted just a fraction, till it hovered clear of the catwalk.
Ross' eyes distended. Nostrils flaring, he broke into a headlong run.
But the catwalk vibrated under the impact of his weight. As if by reflex, his quarry's shoulders stiffened. The fingers on the control-arm spun a dial. The seat whipped round like a pointer on a pivot.
For an instant, then, the eyes of the two men met.
Mawson expelled a sudden breath. His lips peeled back in a death's-head grin. His free hand whipped up the paragun.
Eight feet, possibly, separated the two of them now. Not even breaking stride, Ross dived for Mawson.
Nimble-fingered, the adjudicator flipped switches. The grav-seat rocked back out of reach like a swing, then forward again in a short arc that smashed the chair's base against Ross' shoulder with numbing force as he sprawled off-balance on the catwalk.
Rolling with the blow, Ross went half off the narrow footway. Before he could recover, Mawson spun the seat again. It swished down like a powered sledge.
Spasmodically, Ross threw himself clear off the walk, dangling in mid-air, suspended by the fingers of one hand only.
Above him, Pike Mawson's face contorted in a leer. The seat ground on the edge of the catwalk, searching for his fingers.
Jaws clenched, Ross swung sidewise violently, letting go of the footway with his one hand as he hooked on with the other.
It was like hanging from a spit above a literal inferno. Flames roared below him. The draft that swept from the building's entrance up to the open skylight carried heat like a chimney.
Again, Mawson tried to grind the grav-seat down on Ross' fingers.
Again, Ross swung clear.
Mawson cursed aloud, then leaned far forward over the front of the seat and leveled his paragun at Ross' head.
Free arm flailing, Ross let go his precarious grip on the catwalk and lunged upward towards Mawson, paragun and grav-seat. His clawing fingers locked around the weapon's barrel.
For frantic seconds they hung there thus, struggling for the paragun. Twice, Mawson triggered charges. Both times, they went wide.
But now Ross had a grip on seat as well as weapon. With a sudden jerk, he wrenched the gun from the other's hand. It spun away in a long, catapulting arc that ended in the flames below.
Like lightning, Mawson thumbed a button set in the grav-seat's control-arm.
The chair came down on the catwalk with a crash, then bounced high into the air, almost to the roof. Ross' nails gouged long tracks in the seat's plastox upholstery as his fingers slipped under the shock.
Mawson spun a dial. The grav-seat whipped round in a tight circle that all but hurled Ross clear across the warehouse by sheer centrifugal force.
White to the lips, Ross clutched at Mawson's safety belt.
The adjudicator spun the dial the other way. Simultaneously, he caught the hand on his belt by a forefinger and levered the member back so violently as to make the snap of its fracture audible even through the din of the fire.
Ross gave a low, hoarse cry. He smashed a fist down on the fingers with which Mawson gripped the grav-seat's controls.
It was Mawson's turn to jerk back; cry out. Gripping the control-arm with cable-taut fingers, corded muscles standing out along his forearms, Ross twisted.
Metal screeched a protest. The seat rocked violently.
Ross wrenched again.
A contact-point snapped. Connections tore loose. Sideslipping, out of control, the seat careened down to a precarious landing athwart the catwalk.
Convulsively, Mawson beat at Ross' face—raking the cheeks, stabbing for the eyes.
Ducking his head, Ross levered the control-arm still farther out of place.
A sound close to that of a sob echoed in Mawson's throat. He pounded Ross' back. "Stop it, you fool! Stop it, before you kill us both!"
Panting with strain, Ross paused for an instant.
Mawson, babbling: "Don't you see? There's no way left for us to get out of here except that skylight—and it's too high to do us any good without the grav-seat."
A small, spasmodic ripple of movement, like the passing of a chill, crossed Ross' shoulders. He still didn't speak.
"Turn me in to FedGov Security if you want to, rack you!" raged Mawson. "Do you think I care about that? Just get us out of this hell-hole alive; that's all I ask!"
Ross raised his head a fraction; stared down at the sea of flame below.
Mawson again—a cunning, crafty Mawson this time: "Think of the girl, Ross! Think of her, even if you don't give a filan for your own neck! She'll roast, down there in that office! But you still may be able to save her, if we get around to the street entrance fast enough."
Ross breathed in sharply. He started to straighten.
Twisting in his seat, Mawson peered back and down over his own shoulder. Then, suddenly, he leveled a shaking finger. "Ross! Look—!"
Ross craned forward, staring.
Like lightning, Mawson whipped back his elbow ... smashed it to the bridge of Ross' nose with the same savage force that had stunned Veta Hall.
Ross lurched backwards.
Mawson spun the chair's control-dial. Wobbling, unsteady, the grav-seat started upward.
Only then Ross, reeling, caught the seat's base. His upflung hand slapped the control-plate. His fingers hooked around its edges. Again, muscles stood out along his forearm as he brought sudden pressure.
The plate tore loose. The grav-seat dropped back onto the catwalk with a crash.
Tight-lipped, with no sign that he so much as heard Pike Mawson's shriek of anguish, Ross hurled the control unit down into the roaring fire below....
It was quiet in this place ... so very, very quiet.
Only then, ever so faintly, a door-hinge creaked. Shoes whispered across synthoflooring.
For a long moment, Ross still lay unmoving.
The whispering shoes drew closer—enough shoes for several pairs of feet.
Slowly, Ross opened his eyes.
A tall, slim man stood beside the bed—a man whose dark blue uniform bore silver comets on its shoulder-straps.
Ross straightened just a trifle. Voice faint, he whispered, "Commandant Padora...."
The tall man inclined his head in a small, precise nod. "My congratulations, Mr. Ross."
A muscle in Ross' cheek twitched. "Congratulations—?" And then, more definitely, more firmly: "Congratulations for what?"
"For successfully completing your mission."
Ross said, "I didn't complete it. The formula—"
"The formula has been recovered," the Security commandant interrupted smoothly. "Adjudicator Mawson told us precisely where to find it. Also, he confessed to murdering Doctor Tornelescu."
Ross stared. "Heconfessed?"
Commandant Padora glanced to one of the blue-uniformed men who stood behind him. "He did, didn't he, Mr. Galacorri?"
"He seemed quite eager to," the other answered dryly. "He had some strange notion our rescue party might leave him on that catwalk if he didn't."
The shadow of a smile played round the corners of the commandant's mouth. "In any event, Mr. Ross, Doctor Tornelescu's life catalyst now is in our hands, available for properly-controlled research, development and use. And I'm told that Mr. Mawson undoubtedly will spend the added years of life the injection gave him in a cell."
"I see."
"There's another matter also, Mr. Ross: the matter of your own disobedience of orders." Commandant Padora's grey eyes seemed to study the blank wall before him. "To set your mind at rest, I plead guilty to using you uncomfortably like a cat's-paw. By so restricting you as to precipitate insubordination, I temporarily convinced Cheng and Mawson that you were a free agent. As a result, they acted rashly, without covering their tracks properly. That's how we came to close in when we did; to have men and lines at hand to drop down through that skylight and take you off the catwalk after you'd collapsed from shock and heat."
"I see," Ross said again.
"In consequence of all this," the other went on with clipped precision, "the Federated Governments feel you've earned a certain recompense in terms of honor." He held out a hand to one of the men behind him. "Mr. Livingston...."
"Here, sir." The man laid a flat leather case on the commandant's palm.
"Stewart Ross"—Commandant Padora stood very erect now—"it is my privilege as commandant of the Federated Governments' integrated security agencies to present you at this time with our highest honor, the Starburst Medal First Class for service to humanity above and beyond the call of duty."
He leaned forward as he finished; took the silver decoration from its case and pinned it to the breast of Ross' sleeper jacket.
"Thank you, sir," Ross said. "I do appreciate it."
The other eyed him keenly. "Your face doesn't match your words, Mr. Ross," he observed. "Perhaps it's because you feel you've lost something more important to you than all the FedGov's medals."
And then, pivoting: "Miss Hall!"
For the first time, Ross' head lifted from its pillow. The hand that clutched his coverlet suddenly was shaking.
In the same moment, the blue-uniformed group behind Commandant Padora parted.
And there was Veta Hall.
Pressing between the men, she darted to Ross; fell on her knees beside his bed. And though her dark eyes streamed tears and her forehead still showed its ugly bruised streak, never had her face been lovelier or more radiant.
"Stewart—!" she choked. "Oh, Stewart, my darling...."
Ross' lips cut off her words.
"As I said," Commandant Padora announced to no one in particular, "Mr. Ross' efforts gave us both the time and opportunity to take care of all aspects of the situation at Mawson's warehouse."
It was doubtful if Ross and Veta even heard him....