“Lie low, I’ll clean the devils out.”
Tom twisted his head as the spiteful rattle of the machine gun broke loose.
In front of the atmosphere plant, old McGregor, his white hair looking like a lion’s mane, his shirt ripped to shreds, his teeth working savagely on an oversized quid of tobacco, squatted behind the gun. It seemed to quiver with the excitement of the moment as it spat out blasting death.
Over Tom’s head the pellets whispered their death song and behind him he knew the charging Selenites were being blown into clouds of white ash.
Slowly he started to worm his way toward McGregor, keeping his head low, for he did not wish to intercept one of the lethal pellets.
The patter of the gun and the whisper of the speeding bullets ceased.
“All right, lad,” cried old McGregor and Tom, leaping to his feet, rushed forward, forgetting his pistol, which lay where it had fallen.
When he was only a matter of a few feet from the old man, who was disengaging a magazine preparatory to slipping another into place, a Martian, followed by two Selenites rushed around the corner of the atmosphere plant.
Before Tom could warn his friend, one of the Selenites hurled a stone, which caught McGregor flush on the temple.
The old man slowly slid from his seat on the gun. The Martian and the two Selenites raced for the door of the atmosphere plant.
Tom leaped after them, forgetful for the moment that he was unarmed. As he sped past old McGregor he noted that the white leonine head rested in a pool of blood and that a death pallor stamped the features.
Cursing under his breath, Tom rushed the three mutineers who were trying by brute force and awkwardness to force the locked door of the plant.
Seeing the Earth-man almost upon them, the two Selenites, trained for years to look upon the Terrestrials as their superiors and masters, momentarily forgot their rebellion and crying out in terror, threw their combined weight against the door. It splintered inward under the impact.
Tom arrived at the doorway just in time to see one of the huge brutes crush young Jacobs to the floor with a savage blow of his fist.
At Tom’s cry of rage the three whirled to face him. The faces of the two Moon men were expressionless except for their beady eyes, which shone with a wild light; the features of the Martian were distorted into the snarl of a cornered beast.
It was then Tom realized he was unarmed. His eyes lighted upon the sword lying on the table to his left. It had been only a few hours ago he had listened to the tale of that very sword from the lips of Jacobs. It was a thrilling tale, a story of the days when men fought hand to hand.
His left hand reached out to clutch the scabbard and as he jerked the steel from its resting place, the three leaped to meet him.
With his back to the table he jabbed at the leading Selenite, to send him reeling backwards, howling with pain and clutching his belly. The point off the blade was red.
The second Moon man momentarily checked his rush and, seizing this opportunity, Tom leaped at him with the sword raised high. The brute tried to dodge, but the steel, fairly whistling through the air, caught him at the juncture of the neck and shoulder, cleaving deep. The Moon man slumped to the floor and the blade came free.
A heavy wrench, thrown by the Martian, missed Tom’s head by a fraction of an inch and crashed into an array of bottles on a shelf against the wall.
“I’m coming to get you,” said Tom, addressing the Martian, and the fellow snarled in hate as he backed across the room before the advance of the Terrestrial.
The remaining Selenite, still clutching his belly, staggered forward to place himself between the Earthman and the Martian. Without ado Tom methodically cut him down with a thrust to the throat.
Stepping over the prostrate body, he advanced on the Martian, who was crouched in a corner of the room.
Then, with his six arms outstretched, fingers hooked like talons about to strike, his fang-rimmed mouth opened wide, the Martian sprang to the attack.
Tom, taken by surprise, sprang back and stumbled over the dead Selenite, sprawling backwards, flat on his back, with the Martian almost on top of him.
He looked straight into the red eyes of his assailant, felt the talon-like fingers on his throat. The fanged mouth poised over his face drooled saliva on his cheek.
With all his strength, Tom brought his clenched left fist up, striking the Martian on the temple. As the grip of the fingers momentarily loosened under the impact of the blow, he threw himself sideways and rolled free of the man above him.
Both men sprang to their feet at the same instant and faced one another.
Tom lifted the sword.
“I surrender, I surrender,” mouthed the Martian, fear in his eyes at the sight of the glistening blade poised to strike.
With a crooked smile on his lips, Tom brought the sword down. The Martian, his eight limbs sprawling grotesquely, sagged to the floor, his head almost severed from his body.
Tom wiped the sword and returned it to the scabbard.
Jacobs was dead. So was McGregor. There was no doubt all of the other Terrestrials, except himself, had likewise been killed.
Standing in the center of the room, he tried to determine his next course.
There were likely a few dozen Moon men and Martians still at the station. They were probably already at their work of destruction, wreaking their foolish vengeance upon the dominant Earth race that forced them to labor in the mines and forests on the several far-flung planets.
He cold-bloodedly considered the situation. First he would arm himself and routing out the last of the mutineers, slay them. Then he would remain until assistance came. Headquarters at Shaft Number One, failing to get messages through, would suspect something amiss and investigate. In a very few hours his plight would be discovered.
The atmosphere plant, even unattended, would function for a few hours, long enough, at least, for the investigating party to arrive.
In a cabinet drawer Tom found a pistol and assuring himself it was loaded, slipped it into his holster.
As he started for the door his attention was arrested by a dial. The needle was swinging crazily. He stared in amazement, then in despair. One of the fools had evidently managed to open one of the air locks in the dome and the atmosphere was rushing out into the almost airless desert. Soon the two atmospheres would be equalized and every man caught without some sort of artificial protection and oxygen generator would be killed.
There was only one thing to do. He must reach one of the cars and escape to Shaft Number Eight, ten miles distant.
As he reached the door he realized he still clutched the sword and was about to drop it, when he made a sudden decision to take it with him. Why, he didn’t know. Perhaps, he told himself with a grin, Jacobs’ family might like it returned if and when he got back to Earth.
Outside, a violent wind, something unknown under the great dome, caught and almost swept him off his feet. It was caused by the air rushing for the open lock.
A World of Chaos
Bucking the air currents, which buffeted him cruelly, Tom fought his way across the yard to the car shed.
Here he found everything in disorder. Three machines, smashed and dented by some heavy tool, possibly a sledge hammer, met his eye. There had been four cars. One was missing. Evidently a party of the mutineers had smashed the three cars and escaping in the remaining one, had left one of the air locks open. There must have been a Martian or two in the party. The cow-headed Selenites didn’t have the necessary intelligence to open one of the doors, let alone operate a car.
Tom cursed bitterly. In an hour the dome would be atmospherically equal to the desert outside, in which no man could live. Why did those bone-headed officials insist that every mine employ a few Martians? It would have been better to have killed off the entire race.
There was th
e matter of the cars, too. Why didn’t the company give them light rocket planes instead? Economy again! A car cost about half of what a rocket plane would. What did the square-heads who held down swivel chairs care for the men in these ungodly outposts? Nevertheless, cars or planes, either would have been smashed. His job was to get out of the mess.
The air currents, streaming out of the dome toward the open lock, rattled the loose sheets of galvanized steel on the roof of the shed.
For a moment Tom considered trying to reach and close the lock, but he knew, even as he thought of it, that it would prove an impossible feat. Evidently it was Lock Three, a good half mile to the east. It would take too much time to get there and even if he could reach it, he knew that the air currents would sweep him like a straw through the opening into the dread desert where the thin atmosphere made life impossible.
There remained one chance.
Stored in the cars were metal suits for both the Terrestrials and their underlings, the Martians and Moon men. The suits were equipped with a small oxygen generator. The air, as manufactured, was cooled by a miniature refrigerator, similar to the large refrigeration plant in connection with the atmosphere generators under the dome. The suit, supplied with cool air which somewhat offset the heat of the desert, served well enough for short excursions from the dome or a car, but it was doubtful if a man could cover even ten miles of burning desert sands in one of them.
While encased in one a man could neither eat nor drink. The thought of hours without water was appalling, but there was little that could be done about it. It was the one chance—if the mutineers had not thought to also destroy the suits. Luckily in a locker of one of the wrecked cars he discovered a number of the suits.
The atmosphere was already becoming rare and his heart was pounding savagely as he donned one of them and switched on the atmosphere generator.
About the suit he strapped his pistol and Jacobs’ sword, and stumbled awkwardly forth, making his way to Lock Three.
Buffeted by the wind which carried with it a shower of fine stones and a cloud of dust, he proceeded through the yard, threaded his way along the streets of the location and found himself on the outskirts of the settlement, having covered about half the distance to the lock.
Behind him he heard a crash as one of the shaft houses, its guys loosened by the pressure of the wind against the tower, toppled to the ground.
Turning to watch he saw the second shaft house tumble, hurling broken boards and splinters far into the air. Sheets of corrugated iron, ripped from the roof of the buildings, gyrated across the yard.
He groaned. Working for many years with the Universal Ore Mining Company, it had become a part of his life, a very personal association. A blow at it was a blow at him. Station Number Nine would probably be completely wrecked by the terrific wind which milled in the great dome. It was wrecked as completely as it would have been by the victorious mutineers, had enough of them been left to effect the destruction.
Gallant men had died defending the station. Men he had known for years. Old McGregor, with his everlasting quid of tobacco and his lion heart. Young Jacobs, a brilliant scientist, a fine young fellow, with his old sword, the sword which now hung at Clark’s side.
Eyes dimmed with tears, he faced about and plodded on.
The atmosphere machine was working well. He knew, however, that discomfort would be his in plenty before many miles had been covered. In the back of his mind lurked a persistent doubt of his ability to make those ten long miles of airless, scorching desert. But these thoughts he kept pushing back, realizing that any such doubts would only serve to minimize his chances of reaching Station Number Eight.
The wind was dying down now, but he walked slowly, knowing it would not be safe to approach the lock too soon, lest he be caught and dashed through the opening to his death.
Behind him the settlement was a mass of wreckage, only the stoutly built atmosphere plant standing.
The terrific air currents, in a few minutes, had decreased in ferocity, and Tom deemed it safe to make his way through the lock, which lay only a short distance ahead. He moved toward it. The air currents still tugged at him, but were steadily dying down.
Reaching the lock Tom noticed that the inner portal was intact, pressed tight against the air chamber, but the outer portal was ripped from its hinges and lay a hundred yards out in the desert, deeply embedded in the sand.
For a moment Tom stood in the air chamber, pondering. If he could close the inner door and the atmosphere plant was still working, he could again bring about a suitable atmospheric condition. He suspected it would take some time to restock the huge dome with life-sustaining air. Just how long, he did not know. He was a geologist, not an engineer. While the plant manufactured the air, he could live in the suit and await the coming of a rescue party.
He grasped the door and slowly pulled it back into its proper position. It came to with a hollow sound, but there was no resounding click as the automatic bolts shot home.
Inside the helmet, Tom’s face paled. The lock was broken, smashed in the course of a diabolic plot on the part of the mutineers to destroy the station. The last chance was gone. The desert was the only remaining hope.
Tom squared his shoulders. If only the desert remained, the desert it would be.
Stepping out of the air chamber, his eyes opened wide. To his left, several hundred yards distant, lying on its side, was the car which had apparently been stolen by the Martians and Selenites.
His heart thumping with excitement Tom hurried forward. Evidently something had happened. Ten to one the poor fools had forgotten that opening the two doors at the same time would be as disastrous to themselves as to those in the dome. The first blast had hurled the car and its occupants to destruction.
Upon reaching the machine he found that three of the ports had been smashed. Looking inside he saw the corpses of six Moon men and two Martians, their eyes wide with terror, their mouths stained with blood.
The hope which had risen in him at the sight of the car vanished as he noted the extent of the damage. Besides the three smashed ports, he saw that some of the machinery was also broken. A slight damage he might have repaired, and righting the car by means of jacks, used it in his enforced trip across the desert.
That hope also was now gone.
For a moment he considered remaining near or in the dome to await the coming of a rescue ship.
Little thought was needed, however, to convince him that it would be a foolhardy thing to do. If the rescue ship did not arrive in three hours they would find his corpse inside the suit, for it was beyond human endurance to remain in one longer. If nothing else, a man would go stark, raving mad from the discomfort and the heat, which, after a time, the miniature refrigerator could not mitigate.
He must tackle the desert. There was no alternative. Perhaps he would reach Shaft Number Eight—perhaps not.
With the sand sliding under his feet and the sun, forever hanging like a huge ball of fire over the eastern horizon, beating pitilessly upon his left side, he started the long trek.
He walked in a world where no living thing existed. On every hand was white and yellow sand as dry as dust, drained long ago of any moisture the surface of the planet may once have held. Here and there lay grotesque piles of boulders. There was no life, not a single tree, or a blade of grass. There was no appreciable atmosphere, no water. It was a dead planet, chained forever to its tyrant master, the sun, its rotation on its own axis slowed down so that one heat-tortured hemisphere eternally faced the sun, while the other, frozen solid and night-ridden forever, stared out into infinite space.
Here, on the twilight belt was the only spot on the planet where man, even with the aid of all the artificial protection at his beck and call, could exist at all. Here, on the rim of the planet, where the rays of the sun were always nearly horizontal, man could live if he had at hand means of creati
ng oxygen and a protection from the semi-vacuum of the desert.
To the left lay a seething furnace of a world, to the right, a frigid ice box of a world.
For what seemed ages, Tom tramped, stumbling, across the scorching desert. The treacherous, sliding sand, time after time, brought him to his knees. Despite the slight attraction of gravity, his progress was slow, for the suit was heavy. On earth its weight would have crushed a man flat to the ground.
He had covered approximately four miles when he saw looming a short distance ahead of him a gigantic ridge of tumbled gray rock. It was one of those occasional outcroppings which occurred on the surface of the planet.
Tom noted it with relief. It would offer shade, momentary respite from the burning rays of the sun. Fagged, he headed for the outcropping.
It seemed an interminable distance, but finally he reached it and slumped down in the shade, leaning against a huge boulder. With a sigh of thankfulness, he closed his eyes. He could not remain there long, but he meant to make the most of it.
Opening his eyes he saw two shadows moving across the sand beyond the limit of the shade. Evidently some living thing was on the ridge of rock behind him.
Getting swiftly to his feet, he faced two Martians, equipped with shining air suits.
For a split second Tom stared in surprise at the two, then his hand snapped to his holster. But his steel gloved fingers found it empty. His face blanched. Somewhere on the back trail the pistol had dropped out and now lay in the sands of the trackless desert.
The Martians had watched as his hand went back to his side. Now as he gazed at them he saw a slow, crooked smile come over their ugly faces behind the glass helmets. They knew his pistol was gone; that he was easy prey.
They carried huge clubs fashioned of wood, probably with a good chunk of lead weighing the business end, and these they now shifted to obtain a better grip as they moved toward him.
As his hand came away from the holster it struck the hilt of the sword and his fingers closed about it.