Chan caught his breath. The blue darkness and the shadowy strands of steel spun about him. He had foreseen this danger from the girl—and yet the very peril of her beauty made it all incredible. His hand tightened on the spindle of the geopellor. He had small chance of distancing the bolt of protons, but the power of the little unit could hurl his body against her—

  “Still, Chan Derron!” her voice rang sharply. “Open your hand.” The blaster gestured alertly.

  His fingers relaxed. He tried, hopelessly, to protest.

  “Vanya, you can’t believe that I’m the Basilisk. For, all the time, you were there at my side—”

  “Silence!” The bright weapon lifted, imperatively. “I was there— close enough to feel the mechanism strapped to your body, Derron. And the wires in your sleeve.”

  Narrowed, her violet eyes had a deadly glint.

  “I had you then, Derron—until you sent your little pet to carry me away. Now I’ve got you again—and this tune you won’t escape.” He wondered again at the fingers of her left hand, lifted to that strange white jewel at her throat. “But still I’m going to give you one more chance.”

  He saw the tension in her hand, and the ruthless purpose behind the white perfect mask of her face. Cold as sleet, her voice whipped at him:

  “What did you do with Dr. Eleroid’s invention?”

  Sick, helpless, he shook his head.

  “Where is the machine you control with the instruments on your body—”

  He knew she was going to fire, when he didn’t answer. He could hurl himself at her with the geopellor. Two deaths, instead of one. But her pitiless beauty—

  That monstrous purr came suddenly. The girl and everything beyond her flickered abruptly, as if a wall of vitrilith had dropped between. He saw her hand stiffen on the

  blaster, saw the white bolt’s flash.

  The last thing he saw was her strained face, with its grim suspicion changed to amazed and bitter certainty. Her image dissolved in a chasm of star-glinting darkness. And Chan Derron was hurled into black and airless cold.

  The Clue on Contra-Saturn

  “You say it’s dead?” quavered Giles Habibula. “Jay, you’re sure the fearful thing is dead?”

  High in the shadowy web of blue-lit metal beneath the New Moon’s shell, the grotesque monstrosity sprawled stiffly on the bare platform. Jay Kalam and Hal Samdu and Caspar Hannas stood peering down at it, but Giles Habibula hung apprehensively back near the elevator that had brought them up.

  “Quite dead,” Jay Kalam assured him. “Chan Derron evidently beat us to it—who would have guessed he was wearing a geopellor under his cloak? And then got away—with the girl!”

  “Got away!” It was a pained moan, from the gigantic, black-clad master of the New Moon. “And all our guests know he did. There’s a panic at the docks. Every vessel going out is already booked to capacity. In twenty-four hours there won’t be a visitor in the New Moon—and not many of our own employees—unless the Basilisk is caught.”

  The great white hands of Hannas clenched, impotently.

  “The Basilisk has mined me, Commander!” he rasped. “Or Chan Derron has. Already.”

  “Keep your men after him.” Jay Kalam’s gesture swept the dusky labyrinth of shadow-clotted steel. “He could be here—anywhere. With that woman—” His dark brow furrowed. “There was something about that woman—you observed her, Hal?”

  “Aye, Jay,” rumbled Hal Samdu. “She was beautiful—far too beautiful for any good. She had the same evil beauty that belonged to those androids of Eldo Arrynu.”

  “Android!” Jay Kalam started at the word. “She could be! She could be Luroa— Stephen Oreo’s last sinister sister!” He set his lean fingers deliberately tip to tip. “The New Moon would be the natural hunting ground of such a creature, and Chan Derron the sort of confederate she would seek. But she didn’t look like—”

  “Ah, Jay, but she did!” protested Giles Habibula, plaintively. “That was mortal evident! The hair and the eyes were changed, and make-up cunningly used to alter the shape of her face—ah, it was a lovely one! But still it was that she-monster’s.”

  Jay Kalam spun on him.

  “Why didn’t you speak?”

  Lifting his cane defensively, Giles Habibula stumbled apprehensively back.

  “Jay, Jay,” he whined plaintively, “don’t be too severe on a poor old soldier.” He

  sighed heavily, and one fat yellow hand clutched at his heart. “Giles is an old, old man. His eyes are blurred and dun. But still he can relish the sight of beauty, Jay. And that girl was too beautiful to be stood before your blaster squad. Ah, she was a dream!”

  “If you were any other man, Giles, you’d stand before a blaster squad yourself.”

  The Commander turned decisively back to Gaspar Hannas.

  “Remind your police,” he said, “that this female android is worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That makes three quarters of a million, now, for the two.”

  “I’ll make it an even million, Commander,” the white giant gasped. “To save the New Moon—”

  He stumbled away toward the elevator.

  Jay Kalam was rubbing reflectively at his jaw.

  “Perhaps Luroa ought to stand beside Derron on our suspect list,” he said slowly. “We know the Basilisk is clever, utterly ruthless, and superbly trained in science— and that description certainly fits the android. She must be either the Basilisk or his confederate—or else she came here to snatch his prize away!”

  He turned methodically to the rigid thing Chan Derron had slain. Hal Samdu was already playing his light-tube over it, while Giles Habibula prodded rather fearfully at its armored body with his cane.

  “Ah, such a horror!” the old man wheezed. “And it came out of nothing—”

  “It came from somewhere,” Jay Kalam broke in gravely, “and it brings a new complexity into the situation. It’s no native of the System. And like nothing we found hi the comet. It means—”

  “Jay!” It was an astonished gasp, from Giles Habibula. “Jay, look here!” The prodding cane trembled hi his hand. “This mortal thing was never alive!”

  “What’s that?”

  “See!” the old man wheezed. “The scales of it are metal, fastened on with rivets. The wings are neither flesh nor feathers—they’re blessed cellulite. It had no muscles to make them beat, but this rotating shaft. These serpentine tentacles that raped the poor lass away, are all of metal disks and rubber and wire. And the fearsome eyes have lenses of vitrilith.

  “Jay, the thing’s a mortal robot!”

  “So it is, Giles.” He bent over it. “Hal, may I have your light?”

  He peered into one of the huge, glassy orbs, felt the frail-seeming elastic stuff of the wings, inspected beak and tentacles and limbs, studied the patch of scorched metal scales, and the fused pit where the central eye had been. At last he stood up, decisively, and returned the light-tube.

  “Ah, Jay,” inquired Giles Habibula, “what do you discover?”

  “A good deal,” said the Commander. “A number of inferences are immediately obvious. A thorough scientific investigation will doubtless suggest as many others.”

  He turned to Hal Samdu.

  “Hal, you take charge of this—mechanism. Send to Rocky Mountain base at once for a crew of research technicians—get as many men as possible who were with us on the cometary expedition—and have them disassemble it.

  “Make a thorough microscopic, chemical, bacteriological, and spectrographic study of surface specimens and the material of every part. Photograph every part, before and after removal, under ultraviolet light. Make—but your crew will know what to do. Tell them to neglect no possible source of information—for this thing is our one tangible clue to the methods and the headquarters of the Basilisk.

  “Have your men write up a complete report of what you find, and all possible deductions as to where this machine was built, by whom, for what purpose, and how it could have come to the New Moon. One word more—guard the robot and your results with the utmost care!”

  “Yes, Commander.” Hal Samdu saluted, eagerly, and a joyous smile lit his big ugly face. “Aye, and it’s good to have something really to do, Jay, at last!”

  And he stepped after Hannas into the elevator-beam.

  “Now, Giles,” the Commander continued, “there are three men I must learn more about. I know the overwhelming weight of evidence that Chan Derron is our Basilisk—perhaps with the android’s complicity. But, hi a case so grave, we can’t afford to overlook any other possibility. Admitting that the Basilisk must have a brilliant, pitiless, and scientific mind, there were three others present in the Diamond Room who might possibly be suspect.”

  “Eh, Jay?” The small fishy eyes of Giles Habibula blinked. “Who?”

  “The engineer,” began Jay Kalam, “John Comaine—”

  “Ah, so,” agreed Giles Habibula. “I didn’t like the look of his mysterious box. And the others?”

  “The gambler, Brelekko,” said the Commander. “And Hannas, himself.”

  “Hannas! And Brelekko?” The old man nodded. “Ah, so, I guess they all three fit your classification. I know less of this Comaine. But if two men ever were ravening wolves, Jay, they were Hannas and Brelekko!”

  “You knew them, Giles. Were they always friends, as now?”

  “Friends, Jay!” The leaden eyes peered at him. “Ah, Jay, they were bitter enemies as ever fought—the three of us, each against the rest. Ah, so! And if any of us had been less a man than he was, the others would have picked his precious bones!”

  “Tell me about it, Giles.”

  “It was forty years ago, and more, Jay.” Leaning on the cane, he heaved to a sorrowful sigh. “When Giles was still a man—aye, a fighting man, not the miserable

  old soldier dying before you now. He was back on Venus, on furlough from the legion—”

  “Furlough, Giles?” inquired the grave Commander. “For five years?”

  Giles Habibula sucked in his breath, indignantly.

  “The charges of desertion were never proven, Jay,” he wheezed.

  “Ah, all that was a wicked plot of my enemies, to wreck the career of a loyal Legionnaire—”

  “Never proven,” put in Jay Kalam, solemnly, “because all the documents in the case mysteriously vanished from the files of the Legion.”

  “I know nothing of that.” The fishy eyes blinked. “Jay, Jay! If you’ve nothing better to do than turn up all the malicious lies that were invented by human demons like Hannas and Brelekko to ruin the bravest soldier that ever risked his life to save the System—”

  His thin voice broke, piteously.

  “Forget it, Giles.” A fault twinkle lit the dark eyes of Jay Kalam. “Just tell me what happened on Venus.”

  “Ah, thank you, Jay,” wheezed the old man, gratefully. “You were never one to dig up mortal skeletons to haunt a poor old soldier with!”

  He balanced himself on the cane.

  “I went back to the Blue Unicorn, Jay. It was on a little rocky island off New Chicago. The wildest place—and the richest—hi all the System. But it was a woman that brought me there, Jay.”

  He sighed, and his colorless eyes looked far away into the shadowy cavern of raw metal.

  “Ah, Jay, such a woman as you wouldn’t find in all the whole System today—not unless you picked out the android Luroa. Ah, no other could be so beautiful or so quick or so brave. Her name was Ethyra Coran.”

  He gulped, and his thin voice trembled.

  “The three of us loved her, Jay. Ah, so, every man on Venus was mad with her beauty—but we three were better men than the rest. We knew the matter lay between us. And, for her precious sake, we had to pretend a sort of friendship.

  “Amo Brelekko was just off the Jovian liners. He wasn’t using that name, then. Or the name he had used on the liners—for one ruined man had killed himself, and another had been murdered. He was made of money. Young as he was, he already had a skill—none but I could ever win from him at cards. He had a voice, then—and not that ghastly whisper. And the same gaudy dress and glitter of jewels he wears today. He had a gentle, flattering way with women—aye, Jay, many a poor lass had given him her soul, and perished for it.

  “Caspar Hannas had come from none knew where. He was known as Pedro the Shark.

  There were a thousand whispers about his past, but he wore a different face then— and none who had seen it cared to ask the truth. From wherever he came, he had brought a fortune with him, and he found more at the Blue Unicorn. Money and blood —ah, Jay, I’ve seen sights I can’t forget!

  “Caspar Hannas was a man precious few lasses would have dared to refuse, but Ethyra Coran had a courage to match her beauty and her wit. Ah, so, and precious few men would have cared to be the rival of Pedro the Shark. But that was in the old days, Jay, when old Giles was still a man.”

  The old man’s eyes chanced to fall again upon the monstrous robot on the floor, and he started back apprehensively, as if he had not seen it before.

  “Ah, the hideous machine! I could make a long story, Jay. Aye, a story of cunning and passion and death that would freeze your heart. For the Shark and the Eel were ruthless, cunning beasts, and I—you know that Giles was ever honest and straightforward, Jay, and simple as a precious child—I had to grapple for their fearful weapons, to hold my own. To make the story short, Jay—”

  He paused, and a happy smile crossed his round yellow face.

  “I got the girl—aye, and a mortal lovely prize she was!”

  His smile twisted into a triumphant grin.

  “As for Hannas and Brelekko, why each of them, Jay—through a neat little device of my own—blamed his defeat upon the other. Ah, and then they became enemies indeed. The quickness and the craft of Brelekko matched the brutish strength and the ruthless courage of Hannas, however, and each failed to destroy the other.”

  “And you think they are still enemies?” the grave Commander asked.

  “Deathly enemies,” insisted Giles Habibula. “How could they be friends? When Brelekko must be madly jealous of all the wealth and power Hannas has found in the New Moon. When Hannas—aye, and justly—must hate Brelekko for knowing his past and his tricks, for hanging on him like a leech, and winning at his tables.

  “Ah, so, Jay, hi either of them you have brains enough—and mortal evil, too—to make your Basilisk.”

  “Possibly.” Jay Kalam frowned doubtfully. “Though there’s not a shred of evidence against any man except Chan Derron. We’ll see them again, below.”

  When Hal Samdu had returned, with a guard of Legionnaires, to take charge of the robot for his crew of scientists, they went down again to the luxurious quarters that Caspar Hannas had placed at their disposal. The Commander sent for Amo Brelekko.

  Yellow and almost skeletal, strutting in his gaudy silks, great jewels glittering, the gambler made a fantastic figure. The insolence of his swagger, Jay Kalam thought, must have been put on to cover a deep unease. His dark eyes shot an insanely malicious look at Giles Habibula.

  “Brelekko,” asked the grave Commander, “as a clever man, on the spot from the beginning, intimately acquainted with the persons involved—what is your opinion about the Basilisk?”

  The hawk-face remained a bleak tense mask.

  “Obviously the criminal must be an able scientist,” the voiceless gambler replied. “Obviously, he knows the New Moon intimately. Obviously, also, he dislikes Gaspar Hannas. I know one man, Commander, who fits those three conditions.”

  “So?” wheezed Giles Habibula. “Besides yourself?”

  The dark unblinking eyes darted at him, venomously.

  “Who is that?” Jay Kalam prompted.

  “The man who built the New Moon,” rasped Brelekko. “John Comaine.”

  “But isn’t he employed by Hannas?”

  “John Comaine is the slave of Gaspar Hannas,” Brelekko whispered. “I know the story—I alone, beside the two of them. A young man, a brilliant scientist but mad with the thirst for wealth, Comaine came to the battered hulk of a condemned space ship that was the first New Moon. He lost too much—money that was not his to lose. Hannas let him pay the debt with his science—and then held the new crime over him. Comaine tried at first to escape, but every effort left him deeper in the power of Hannas. Yet I think he still has the pride and the heart of a scientist. I know he first dreamed of the New Moon, Commander, not as a gambling resort, but as a super-observatory and laboratory of all the sciences, to be stationed out in Neptune’s orbit. It was the ruthless power of Hannas that turned his dream of Contra-Neptune into this. Would it be very strange, Commander, if a scientist, revolting against half a lifetime of such slavery, should make his science strike back?”

  “Perhaps not,” Jay nodded slowly. “Thank you, Brelekko.”

  He detailed two plain-clothes men to shadow the gambler, and sent for John Comaine. When the engineer appeared, stiffly awkward, the square stern mask of his slightly pop-eyed face hiding any emotion, the Commander asked him the same question about the Basilisk.

  Comaine shook his big blond head, impassive as a statue.

  “The Basilisk is a scientist,” said his flat harsh voice. “I know, Commander, because I have been attempting to set my own knowledge against his. And I have failed to match him. I have met only one mind equal in ability to the feats of the Basilisk—the mind of Dr. Max Eleroid.”

  “But Eleroid is dead!”

  “My only suggestion, Commander,” the engineer said flatly, “is that the cadaver in question was not accurately identified.”

  Two more operatives were sent to follow Comaine.

  An orderly, in the Legion green, was admitted.

  “Commander Kalam.” He saluted. “We have reports from the principal stock exchanges on all the planets. As you surmised, sir, the shares and obligations of the New Moon syndicate fell precipitately with the news of what happened here—to

  about three per cent, in fact, of their former value.

  “The financial reports confirm your belief, Commander, that a behind-the-scenes battle has been in progress for control of the syndicate. One group has now capitulated, evidently, so that the other is able to buy at its own price.”

  Jay Kalam nodded gravely.

  “Has the buyer been traced?”

 

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