Collected Short Fiction, page 251
Donovan pocketed the change, stowed the ticket in his billfold, and turned away. 1300 was half an hour from now. He glanced around uneasily, wondering if Hjalaz might not have some ideas about him. A Killer who backed out of a job was always suspect; Hjalaz might have decided to dispose of him on the odd chance that Donovan could be potentially dangerous.
He squinted and wondered if the Antarean loafers he saw some thousand yards away at the refreshment-booth were following him. Could be; he decided to take no chances. He moved smoothly toward the entrance to the landing field.
A robot waited at the door. “Ticket, sir?”
Donovan fumbled in his wallet and produced the ticket. The robot scanned it and said, “The Indefeasible is not loading for another 10 minutes, sir. Would you mind waiting in the anteroom to your left?”
The Earthman scowled; he didn’t care to get ambushed in the terminal and he knew he was safe once he got aboard that ship. But there was no use arguing with the robot. He debated making a dash under the robot’s arm and out onto the field.
“Mr. Donovan,” a voice said.
He was so amazed he nearly went for his blaster. Somehow he got control over himself and turned to see who had spoken.
It was the girl. Bette Furness.
“What the devil do you want?”
“We tapped your call to Hjalaz,” she said. “Then we traced you here. I don’t know what made you change your mind, but I just had to come out here—to thank you—to—”
“Never mind,” he said. “I’m leaving. I’m not doing the job. Don’t make a fuss over me.”
“Sorry. It’s just that—Lyle, Earth will always be grateful to you.”
“Grateful? What the hell for? Hjalaz will just hire someone else to do the job.”
“Perhaps we can persuade him the same way.”
Donovan eyed his watch. It was nearly time for the ship to start loading and he was impatient. He didn’t want to talk to Bette Furness any more. He wanted to get aboard, far from the ominous-looking trio who seemed to be doing nothing at all, there at the far end of the terminal.
Possibly they were in the pay of the Terran Embassy, he thought. Possibly the girl had hired them to rub him out, just to remove all possibility of his killing Ledroz. Possibly she was stalling him until they could maneuver into a good position. They seemed to be edging nearer now.
“My ship’s going to be loading, soon. I’m going to Betelgeuse. There’ll be. work for me there.”
“Work? Oh—you mean—”
“Killing,” he completed. “If you’ll excuse me now, Miss Furness—”
There was something she seemed to be trying to say. “Donovan—Lyle—I want to tell you—”
Whatever it was, she didn’t finish. Donovan saw now that the three Antareans were moving toward him rapidly and there wasn’t much doubt of their intention. Donovan turned and ran, ducking under the robot’s outstretched arm and racing out onto the hard brown soil of the landing-field.
He looked back and saw that his three followers had gone past the astonished robot as well. Donovan drew his blaster as he ran, and ducked behind a fueling-truck that stood beneath one of the huge ships.
As the three approached he fired at the biggest and ugliest. The blaster beam caught the Antarean amidships, charred a black-edged hole through his blubbery belly and knocked him 10 feet back toward the terminal.
The other two split up and managed to lose themselves in a tangle of machinery. Donovan looked around tensely, wondering where they were.
And then he found out. They came rushing at him at the same time from opposite directions, knives drawn.
Donovan heard a scream. Bette Furness? He didn’t have time to look. His blaster rose and he ashed the Antarean approaching from the left, just as the other one cracked heavily into him and drove his knife into Donovan’s shoulder.
There was the icy fire of pain stiffening his arm. Donovan wrenched away, feeling hot blood soaking through his shirt. The blaster dropped from his numbed hand. The Antarean raised the knife again, ready for a final stroke.
With all his catlike skill, Donovan leaped back and the blow fell on empty air. The Antarean growled in annoyance. Donovan took two skipping steps forward and brought his toe upward in a perfect dropkick. The knife flew out of the alien’s hand and travelled some 20 feet in a shining arc, embedding itself upright in the ground.
Now they were both without weapons. The Antarean was big and burly and Donovan’s right arm was almost useless from pain.
But Donovan had the advantage of years of training in the toughest profession there was. He had been up against worse odds than this before.
He allowed the Antarean to rip two brutal, punishing body blows into him. Gasping for breath, fighting back nausea, Donovan spun away and recovered. The pain in his stomach helped to neutralize the stinging fury in his arm. It was an old technique. The body could feel just so much pain, and if he could divide it—
Ignoring the twin pain-centers in arm and stomach, Donovan went into the dancing pattern of attack he had learned so many years before. The Antarean followed him dimly, like a large bear, as Donovan forced his tired body to bob and weave in a fast-moving pattern.
Suddenly a fist exploded before the Antarean’s face. The alien staggered and tried to fight back but his enemy was untouchable.
Donovan waltzed behind the big Antarean and brought his fists down hard on the thick neck. The alien rocked and grunted in anger. He turned clumsily, and Donovan drove his one good arm deep into the creature’s belly. The alien gasped, tried to recover his breath. Donovan hit him again, hard, and while the alien reeled dizzily the Earthman crashed a fist upward from his knees with all the strength he had.
There was a clicking sound, and the alien’s head snapped back grotesquely. Neck broken, the Antarean tumbled to the ground.
Donovan sighed in relief. Then someone cried, “Look out, Lyle!” and he knew the battle still had not ended.
A SPURT OF ENERGY shot over his head and splatted against the fueling-truck. Donovan looked around and saw a fat alien peering toward him, endeavoring to get a clearer view.
It was Kro Hjalaz.
“I’ve got you, Earthman. You’ll be dead in a minute. You’re too dangerous to leave alive.”
“Come get me, Hjalaz! Put down that gun and fight me the way your bully-boys did.”
The Antarean ruler chuckled. “I’m not as mad as all that.” He fired again, and again Donovan ducked. Sweat cascaded down his body; his arm and the pit of his stomach ached. “You’re in the pay of Ledroz, aren’t you?” Hjalaz demanded. “He hired you, outbid me for you. You thought you’d play both sides for all they were worth.”
“You’re crazy, Hjalaz.”
Another bolt of energy sang overhead. Hjalaz was finding the range; another couple of shots and—
“Lyle! Here!”
Donovan was astonished to see the girl, Bette Furness. She was holding the blaster Donovan had dropped.
“You idiot—you want to get killed?”
“I saw the gun lying here. Hjalaz will kill you!”
“Why so quiet in there, Earthman? You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately for you, I am.” Donovan grabbed the gun in his left hand. It was a good thing most Killers were ambidextrous, he thought. Cautiously he leaned around the edge of the fueling-truck.
Hjalaz was taking aim—at the fuel tank! If he got that shot off it would mean an explosion that would finish Donovan and the girl at once.
Donovan brought the blaster into firing position just as Hjalaz’ hand tightened on the trigger. The Earthman fired.
One shot was all a Killer needed.
“He’s dead,” Bette Furness said.
“So he is.” Donovan stared at the gun dangling from his hand. He was limp and exhausted. Where was the glory of the kill, he wondered, the thrill of death he used to feel? Gone.
He turned to the girl. “Well, it worked out swell for you, didn’t it? Hjalaz is dead and now I suppose Ledroz will rule by himself. There won’t be any war.” Hollowly, he looked away. “And I’m out of a job.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I—can’t kill any more.” The words stung his lips as they emerged. “Something’s happened to me. And you did it! If I’d killed Ledroz, as I was paid to do—no: you were right. I would have done something terribly wrong if I’d killed Ledroz.” The admission surprised him, but he knew it was true.
He felt the girl’s lithe fingers probing his slashed shoulder. “You’re wounded, Donovan.”
“So? What’s it to you?”
“Lyle, don’t you understand? I—I—love you!”
He started to snap out an angry sarcasm but suddenly saw the girl’s eyes. He bowed his head. “You love a Killer?” He chuckled. “No . . . that’s wrong.”
Donovan seized her fiercely, pulled her to him. “You love an ex-Killer,” he said. Letting go of her, he drew his Guild emblem from his pocket, stared curiously at the beryllium dagger and let the now-useless trinket fall to the blood-soaked ground.
He would never wear it again.
THE END
Postmark Ganymede
Consider the poor mailman of the future. To “sleet and snow and dead of night—things that must not keep him from his appointed rounds—be added, sub-zero void, meteors, and planets that won’t stay put. Maybe he’ll decide that for six cents an ounce it just ain’t worth it.
“I’M washed up,” Preston growled bitterly. “They made a postman out of me. Me—a postman!”
He crumpled the assignment memo into a small, hard ball and hurled it at the bristly image of himself in the bar mirror. He hadn’t shaved in three days—which was how long it had been since he had been notified of his removal from Space Patrol Service and his transfer to Postal Delivery.
Suddenly, Preston felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw a man in the trim gray of a Patrolman’s uniform.
“What do you want, Dawes?”
“Chief’s been looking for you, Preston. It’s time for you to get going on your run.”
Preston scowled. “Time to go deliver the mail, eh?” He spat. “Don’t they have anything better to do with good spacemen than make letter carriers out of them?”
The other man shook his head. “You won’t get anywhere grousing about it, Preston. Your papers don’t specify which branch you’re assigned to, and if they want to make you carry the mail—that’s it.” His voice became suddenly gentle. “Come on, Pres. One last drink, and then let’s go. You don’t want to spoil a good record, do you?”
“No,” Preston said reflectively. He gulped his drink and stood up. “Okay. I’m ready. Neither snow nor rain shall stay me from my appointed rounds, or however the damned thing goes.”
“That’s a smart attitude, Preston. Come on—I’ll walk you over to Administration.”
Savagely, Preston ripped away the hand that the other had put around his shoulders. “I can get there myself At least give me credit for that!”
“Okay,” Dawes said, shrugging. “Well—good luck, Preston.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Thanks real lots.”
He pushed his way past the man in Space Grays and shouldered past a couple of barflies as he left. He pushed open the door of the bar and stood outside for a moment.
It was near midnight, and the sky over Nome Spaceport was bright with stars. Preston’s trained eye picked out Mars, Jupiter, Uranus. There they were—waiting. But he would spend the rest of his days ferrying letters on the Ganymede run.
He sucked in the cold night air of summertime Alaska and squared his shoulders.
Two hours later, Preston sat at the controls of a one-man patrol ship just as he had in the old days. Only the control panel was bare where the firing studs for the heavy guns was found in regular patrol ships. And in the cargo hold instead of crates of spare ammo there were three bulging sacks of mail destined for the colony on Ganymede.
Slight difference, Preston thought, as he set up his blasting pattern.
“Okay, Preston,” came the voice from the tower. “You’ve got clearance.”
“Cheers,” Preston said, and yanked the blast-lever. The ship jolted upward, and for a second he felt a little of the old thrill—until he remembered.
He took the ship out in space, saw the blackness in the viewplate. The radio crackled.
“Come in, Postal Ship. Come in, Postal Ship.”
“I’m in. What do you want?”
“We’re your convoy,” a hard voice said. “Patrol Ship 08756, Lieutenant Mellors, above you. Down at three o’clock, Patrol Ship 10732, Lieutenant Gunderson. We’ll take you through the Pirate Belt.”
Preston felt his face go hot with shame. Mellors! Gunderson! They would stick two of his old sidekicks on the job of guarding him.
“Please acknowledge,” Mellors said.
Preston paused. Then: “Postal Ship 1872, Lieutenant Preston aboard. I acknowledge message.”
There was a stunned silence. “Preston? Hal Preston?”
“The one and only,” Preston said.
“What are you doing on a Postal ship?” Mellors asked.
“Why don’t you ask the Chief that? He’s the one who yanked me out of the Patrol and put me here.”
“Can you beat that?” Gunderson asked incredulously. “Hal Preston, on a Postal ship.”
“Yaeh. Incredible, isn’t it?” Preston asked bitterly. “You can’t believe your ears. Well, you better believe it, because here I am.”
“Must be some clerical error,” Gunderson said.
“Let’s change the subject,” Preston snapped.
They were silent for a few moments, as the three ships—two armed, one loaded with mail for Ganymede—streaked outward away from Earth. Manipulating his controls with the ease of long experience, Preston guided the ship smoothly toward the gleaming bulk of far-off Jupiter. Even at this distance, he could see five or six bright pips surrounding the huge planet. There was Callisto, and—ah—there was Ganymede.
He made computations, checked his controls, figured orbits. Anything to keep from having to talk to his two ex-Patrolmates or from having to think about the humiliating job he was on. Anything to—!
“Pirates! Moving up at two o’clock!”
Preston came awake. He picked off the location of the pirate ships—there were two of them, coming up out of the asteroid belt. Small, deadly, compact, they orbited toward him.
He pounded the instrument panel in impotent rage, looking for the guns that weren’t there.
“Don’t worry, Pres,” came Mellors’ voice. “We’ll take care of them for you.”
“Thanks,” Preston said bitterly. He watched as the pirate ships approached, longing to trade places with the men in the Patrol ships above and below him.
Suddenly a bright spear of flame lashed out across space and the hull of Gunderson’s ship glowed cherry red. “I’m oaky,” Gunderson reported immediately. “Screens took the charge.”
Preston gripped his controls and threw the ship into a plunging dive that dropped it back behind the protection of both Patrol ships. He saw Gunderson and Mellors converge on one of the pirates. Two blue beams licked out, and the pirate ship exploded.
But then the second pirate swooped down in an unexpected dive’. “Look out!” Preston yelled helplessly—but it was too late. Beams ripped into the hull of Mellors’ ship, and a dark fissure line opened down the side of the ship. Preston smashed his hand against the control panel. Better to die in an honest dogfight than to live this way!
It was one against one, now—Gunderson against the pirate. Preston dropped back again to take advantage of the Patrol ship’s protection.
“I’m going to try a diversionary tactic,” Gunderson said on untappable tight-beam. “Get ready to cut under and streak for Ganymede with all you got.”
“Check.”
Preston watched as the tactic got under way. Gunderson’s ship traveled in a long, looping spiral that drew the pirate into the upper quadrant of space. His path free, Preston guided his ship under the other two and toward unobstructed freedom. As he looked back, he saw Gunderson steaming for the pirate on a sure collision orbit.
He turned away. The score was two Patrolmen dead, two ships wrecked—but the mails would get through.
Shaking his head, Preston leaned forward over his control board and headed on toward Ganymede.
The blue-white, frozen moon hung beneath him. Preston snapped on the radio.
“Ganymede Colony? Come in, please. This is your Postal Ship.” The words tasted sour in his mouth.
There was silence for a second. “Come in, Ganymede,” Preston repeated impatiently—and then the sound of a distress signal cut across his audio pickup.
It was coming on wide beam from the satellite below—and they had cut out all receiving facilities in an attempt to step up their transmitter. Preston reached for the wide-beam stud, pressed it.
“Okay, I pick up your signal, Ganymede. Come in, now!”
“This is Ganymede,” a tense voice said. “We’ve got trouble down here. Who are you?”
“Mail ship,” Preston said. “From Earth. What’s going on?”
There was the sound of voices whispering somewhere near the microphone. Finally: “Hello, Mail Ship?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to have to turn back to Earth, fellow. You can’t land here. It’s rough on us, missing a mail trip, but—”
Preston said impatiently, “Why can’t I land? What the devil’s going on down there?”
“We’ve been invaded,” the tired voice said. “The colony’s been completely surrounded by ice worms.”
“Iceworms?”
“The local native life,” the colonist explained. “They’re about thirty feet long, a foot wide, and mostly mouth. There’s a ring of them about a hundred yards wide surrounding the Dome. They can’t get in and we can’t get out—and we can’t figure out any possible approach for you.”
“Pretty,” Preston said. “But why didn’t the things bother you while you were building your Dome?”
