DUEL IN BLACK

                          By JOHN FOSTER WEST

           In Luna's shroud-like shadows two men lay waiting
           for each other's move, even their guns obscured.
              But the dancing space moths weren't fooled.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Winter 1947.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Young Ron Crag fused the edge of his claim tag to the metal vein in
the quartzite rock with his heat gun, then with heavy-shod fingers he
tugged at the small copper disk, but it remained firmly in place.

"That makes you owner according to law, Mr. Crag," he murmured. In the
lonely, rugged reaches of Luna's north country a man had to talk to
someone. "A real lode looks like. Richest uranium lode I've seen in
many a Lunar June. Bring me a nice roll if some of those rotten claim
jumpers don't--"

Automatically he grasped the hilt of his gun, loosening it in the
holster. He sauntered toward the catatread, parked near the southern
rim of the small crater, near the mouth of the gorge.

He could see several purple, nebulous space moths fluttering around the
engine of his vehicle. Crag watched them as he approached the machine;
they dipped, fluttered and weaved about the catatread, many of them
wrapping themselves about the warm metal of the engine and eagerly
absorbing any heat present. They reminded Ron Crag more of translucent
amoeba wreathing through the nothingness of space than moths, but some
ancient had dubbed them moths and moths they had remained.

They ranged in size from the area of a man's hand to about three square
feet. He knew two things about them; they could detect the slightest
rise in temperature over a distance of fifty yards, and they did not
like the intense, constant heat of the two-weeks lunar days. They
apparently disappeared into craters and fissures during the hotter part
of the day, and came out after the setting of the sun.

"Good thing my suit and thermocubes are completely insulated," he
muttered, "or there'd probably be about ten thousand of them wrapped
around me, drinking up the heat."

He dropped his hands to the two metal blocks built on to the suit high
on each hip. Those two mechanisms were almost as important as his
oxygen tank. They generated the heat conducted to the material of the
suit and protected him from the 153° C of the lunar nights. Of course,
he could last awhile with only one of the units functioning. A man
got into the habit of checking them during the long nights; his life
depended on them--them and the oxygen tank, and sometimes the gun.

       *       *       *       *       *

The pale, turquoise disk of Earth rode low in the heavens above the
serrated Alps, towering above him, illuminating the rugged fastnesses
in a sort of aqua glow. Earth, now at full, lighted Luna many times
brighter than a full moon had ever lighted her. But the countless
thousands of shadows cast by lava stalagmites, spires, boulders and
mountain peaks were pits of nothingness. Crag walked into the Stygian
blackness cast by a stalagmite and disappeared as completely as though
swallowed up by a dark hole in the moon's surface. He passed on through
the shadow and reappeared abruptly on the other side. He himself cast
a long, black shadow, more weird because it appeared to be a black pit
sliding over the floor of the crater.

Instinctively Ron Crag crouched as the pencil of flame streaked past
his head. He could not feel the heat through the insulated suit, but he
knew it had missed him by scant inches. He wheeled and darted back into
the shadow he had just quitted, his gun leaping into his hand.

He saw a burly form dart into the shadow of a massive boulder across
the basin from him. He started to snap a beam at it, but held his
fire; the flare would only betray his own position. He could not see
the slightest shape, the slightest trace of movement in the inky
blackness of the other shadow. There was some compensation in knowing
that the ambusher could not see him either. Without air to diffuse the
earthlight, the shadows were sharp and distinct as though no light
existed in all the universe outside their borders.

He glanced in the direction from which his attacker had come. There
in the north edge of the crater, in the mouth of the canyon, another
catatread was parked. It was an old model, battered and eroded by time
and hard usage. Ron Crag thought he recognized the steed; he had seen
it once or twice down south, in the parking area back of the Tycho
terradome. Realizing the identity of his assailant a sudden terror
paralyzed him for a moment, but then it fled, leaving him trembling and
angry.

"Howdy, son," a sarcastic voice drawled into the earphones of his
radarphone. "You shouldn't talk to yo'self about your rich lodes, else
you should be sure your radarphone is cut off, so's pore luckless
critters like me couldn't overhear ye."

Crag bit his lip in anger and shame. The killer had heard his remark,
got a directional fix on his position and--

"Joe Braun?" Crag grated into the transmitter in his helmet, forcing
the quaver out of his voice. "Biggest, dirtiest claim jumper in all
North Luna."

"Nobody ever proved a thing on me," Joe Braun guffawed.

"No! Or you'd be at the bottom of some crater," Crag retorted. "This
time you've slipped."

"Think so, feller? Think you'll be reportin' this?"

Ron's flesh crept. There were few men on Luna who would match flame
with this black-bearded killer. Those luckless ones who had challenged
him were now piled at the bottom of various craters.

Crag stared at the black shadow protecting his adversary, gripping his
gun. But he knew there would be nothing to shoot at unless Braun shot
first, revealing his position. And Joe was no fool even when he faced
a greenhorn from Earth. Crag was at bay here in the concealing shadow,
helpless, trapped, and calling for help was out of the question. The
radarphone would not carry to the nearest terradome.

The catatread! If he could make a dash for the catatread, reach it
and throw a light beam into the shadows he could burn the other to
a crisp with the large, swivel gun. But then a wave of despondency
blacked out his thoughts. It was too far to the vehicle. Even with the
lighter gravity of Luna to hold him back, his space suit was heavy and
cumbersome, and he could never make it before Joe Braun would throw at
least three shots in him. He would be a clay pigeon.

Suddenly he realized the hopelessness of his predicament. He could
never match flame with Joe Braun. Ron Crag knew he did not have a
chance in an open duel with the ruthless killer.

"What'sa matter, son, afraid?" came the taunt through his headset.

"I guess you know what the penalty is for claim jumping?" Crag snapped.
"To say nothing of attempted murder?"

"Shore I do," Joe Braun laughed. "A great big posse'll hunt me down and
toss me into a bottomless crater. That's what happens to claim jumpers
as gets caught. And you'll get a big, fat reward, huh, sonny?"

Ron bit back his answer.

"But you named one o' the charges wrong, son," chided Joe gently. "You
called it _attempted_ murder." He chuckled. "That's one thing ol' Joe
Braun ain't ever gonna be guilty of. Whyn't ya come outa that shadder
an' get it over with?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Crag did not answer. He looked toward the catatread. There was not a
single rock or spire between it and him to protect him. The cliffs of
the Alps rose sheer and precipitous from the level of the crater floor,
and for most of the distance to the vehicle the very base of the cliffs
was brightly illuminated in the earthlight. But here and there a black
shadow did jut out from the base of the precipice, cast by jagged
peaks, eight thousand feet above the tiny basin. Those shadows formed
an irregular chain of black splotches over the pumice-covered floor
between Crag and the catatread.

Crag wasted no time weighing his chances. Blood beat fiercely in his
temples as he tensed. He darted out into the earthlight, then retreated
back into the same shadow as a livid ribbon of flame streaked by just
in front of his visorport. He knew it was excellent shooting for a
hand-gun at that range. It would take Joe Braun ten seconds to recharge
and readjust the gun, and in that time--

Ron Crag darted out into the earthlight again, and fled for the nearest
shadow a hundred feet away. He ducked into the blackness only split
seconds ahead of another bolt of flame. If Braun only nicked his suit,
his oxygen tank, or his thermocubes it would finish him, and the gunman
was getting his range.

Joe Braun was out in the light now, dashing for the shadow of a spire
nearer Crag's catatread. Ron Crag raised his gun and pressed the trip;
a bolt of flame cleaved space just behind the hurtling shape.

A disappointed oath ricocheted about the close walls of Crag's helmet.
He quickly pressed the charge poles of the gun against the battery
posts in his accessory belt and recharged the gun. He then turned the
range dial to seventy-five yards, leaving the bolt diameter at one
inch. He crouched in the shadow, peering across the intervening area
between himself and his assailant.

"Missed, son!" Joe Braun guffawed. "Want to make it to your catatread,
eh? Well, two can play the same game."

Crag swallowed an angry retort. Despair was again rising in him like a
dense fog.

       *       *       *       *       *

Joe Braun darted for another shadow, drawing ever closer to Crag's
vehicle. Crag took careful aim, but his hand wavered ever so slightly.
He fired. A streak of flame reached out and nicked--no, it passed just
to the rear of the fleeing man, a little above hip level. He could have
sworn the bolt grazed the man's accessory belt, but no apparent damage
was done. The huge man kept running and ducked into another shadow
nearer the catatread. If Joe Braun made it safely to the machine he
could turn the young prospector's gun on its owner and burn him down
without effort.

The next shadow in the chain was only twenty yards away. Crag covered
the distance in three strides. Another bolt blasted space between his
head and right shoulder. He snapped a bolt back in retaliation. It cut
high and to the left.

Crag glanced frantically at the catatread. It was still too far away
to reach in one dash. He knew he could never make it unless he hugged
the shadows as he had been doing. Several space moths still clung
hungrily to the cooling engine of the machine, but many of them were
flopping and writhing frantically in space above the machine. They had
detected the violent heat from the flame guns in the instant before
their heat was dissipated into space, but that split second was not
long enough for the creatures to locate the origin of the heat. They
seemed frustrated, flopping desperately about in confused circles. Some
of them fluttered into the shadows of the rocks and spires in their
search, and their vaguely radiant network of veins squirmed like purple
wraiths in the Stygian blackness.

Crag's attention was suddenly yanked back to his predicament, when Joe
Braun darted for another shadow. Crag snapped another bolt and missed
again. Either the bandit had plenty of guts or he knew Ron Crag was
really a poor shot. He did not hesitate in his advance from shadow to
shadow toward the catatread. It was a duel to the death, here in the
shadows.

Ron Crag dashed to the next shadow without drawing flame. Apparently
Joe deliberately held his fire, for the lighted area between this one
and the next shadow was much further than Crag could sprint even in ten
seconds. And beyond the next one lay the catatread. He crouched against
the rock cliffs, glancing first toward the vehicle, then back at the
black blot that he knew concealed the killer.

There were only three more spires between Joe Braun and the catatread,
three more shadows, three more short sprints. Once the claim jumper
made the machine Ron Crag knew the duel was over anyway. Maybe his
best chance was to wait here, aim carefully and take a chance on a
lucky hit. But if he missed Braun in the first sprint the man could
make it all the way to the spire nearest the machine before Crag could
recharge. And if he reached that last spire....

Perhaps he'd better run for it, after all, Crag thought desperately.
But he knew with a cold certainty the sure aim of the gunman could not
miss him in the long sprint. Perhaps if he shot in Joe's direction just
after he broke into the earthlight it might divert the killer's aim
enough for a miss. He decided abruptly that it was his only chance.

       *       *       *       *       *

With trembling fingers he checked the range dials on the gun. His
tongue clung to the roof of a dry mouth. Crag crouched, darted
forward--then halted so abruptly on the very rim of the shadow that he
fell backwards and landed gently on both elbows.

Slowly he got to his feet, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Several
space moths were weaving through space toward the shadow of the
pinnacle concealing the bandit. Crag stared, breathing more evenly now.
More and more of the nebulous creatures were rising above the catatread
and moving straight as a plumb line in the wake of the leading moths.

He stared at the inky shadows where he knew the killer lurked. The
first two or three moths had already reached their destination. He
could see their pulsating, irradiant veins curled around some object
that had attracted them. More and more of the creatures floated into
the shadow, disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared for a
moment, and then reappeared as a vague glow, fluttering toward the mass
their companions had already formed.

Ron Crag watched. The killer was apparently oblivious to their
presence. Ron wet dry lips with his tongue, while his fingers slowly
reset the dials on the gun. Range: sixty yards! Diameter of beam: four
inches! Slowly he raised the gun and took careful aim, eight inches to
the right, eighteen inches above the radiant cluster of space moths. If
he was wrong, if he.... It was a gamble and if he was shooting at the
wrong space Joe Braun would get him with the flare of Ron's gun. Even
if he only wounded him, the other would get him.

"Worried, feller--" the harsh voice began.

A coruscating tube of flame leaped at the shadow across the canyon;
for a moment it illuminated the area around the bandit in a brilliant
glare. His taunting voice broke off with an agonized gasp. In the
brief flash Ron Crag saw the man twist erect, his empty hands grasping
heavenward. He took three halting steps and tumbled into full view in
the earthlight. A great, charred hole was burned completely through his
chest, and already the space moths were shifting to the wound, eagerly
absorbing the escaping heat from the suit, and from Joe Braun's body.

[Illustration: _In the brief flash Ron Crag saw the man twist erect._]

Ron Crag slowly approached the crumpled form, gun ready. One glance
at the sightless eyes, the bearded face and open mouth behind the
visorport was all he needed to confirm what he already knew. Joe Braun
had jumped his last uranium claim; Joe Braun had pulled his last gun.

He leaned over the body, examining it closely. His gamble had panned
out. One corner of the thermocube on Braun's right hip was fused and
a pinpoint hole was evident. The heat bolt Crag thought struck the
killer's accessory belt had not missed after all.

"I'll be a fork-tailed comet!" Ron Crag breathed. He glanced
affectionately at the squirming, purple creatures. "Thanks, friends,"
he murmured.

Then he set out on shaking legs for the catatread.