Z-DAY ON CENTAURI

                          By HENRY T. SIMMONS

                Erupting from hyper-space in the teeth
               of startled DIC patrols and readying all
                 hands for a crash-landing, adventurer
               Fletcher Pell could still wonder which he
                dreaded more--the U-235 in the hold ...
                   or the strange girl by his side.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Summer 1948.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Pell twisted into the black maw of the alley and ran silently and
swiftly into its depths. His breath came in whistling agonized gasps.
Faintly he heard the footsteps of his assailant--now more clearly as
the latter turned into the alley after him. Vaguely Pell could make out
his silhouette outlined by the dim light that filtered in from the
street.

"Ugh!" Pell struck a hard surface at the end of the alley with a grunt
that he could not stifle.

Trapped! Frantically he felt about to find an opening. Softly and
steadily he cursed himself, trying to keep black despair at bay. Maybe
if he ... but the idea died in birth.

"Chuu!"

A blue lancet of flame arced over Pell's shoulder and struck the wall,
turning a small area into running slag. The heat and prickling of the
radiation Pell ignored. But the brief flash had given up his position.
Then he heard his pursuer laugh softly and he knew the game was up. He
felt rather than heard him moving in.

_Paumm!_

Pell's universe rocked in the reverberating thunder of the explosion.

_Paumm! Paumm!_

Twice more it was repeated and in the vivid flash Pell saw his
assailant twist and collapse on his face. His amazement fought with
a new dread. Someone had come to his aid, but with an ancient,
chemical-reaction, hand weapon. What did that mean? With his back
tensed against the wall, Pell strained his perceptions to the utmost,
trying to adjust his eyes once more to the darkness. Then he jumped.

"Pell!" It was a woman's voice! "Fletcher Pell! Come out--I am a
friend!"

He was aware of a faint outlander quality in her accent--as if she were
a colonial. Dimly he could make out her slight figure at the mouth of
the _cul de sac_. He moved cautiously toward her, stopping to pick up
the blaster of the fallen DIC agent. The comforting feel of its butt
gave him confidence as he walked toward her.

"Who are you?" Pell asked. She was small and lithe, and in the dim
radiance of the street lights he noticed that she had brown hair with
glints of spun-gold in it.

She did not reply to his question but put a soft hand over his mouth.
"Let your questions wait. We must leave quickly, else they find us,"
she said huskily. She led him from the alley and walked breathlessly
down the dark street, two of her steps matching one of his long ones.

There was a fast-looking black speeder at the corner. She motioned him
in and no sooner had the door closed than the speeder leaped forward
and melted into the traffic. The girl relaxed in the seat beside him,
the sudden easing of the tension making her hands shake.

"Who are you?" Pell asked, repeating his earlier question.

She looked at him keenly in the dim light that splashed through the
windows of the speeder. "Perhaps, Mr. Pell," she replied at length,
"it would not be too wise to reveal identities yet. I have a certain
proposition to discuss and I think it might be better to talk first
about that."

Pell shrugged and said, "As long as you choose to remain my unknown
benefactor, how about benefiting me with a drink?"

The voice of the driver replied unexpectedly from the front seat.
"Here."

Pell accepted a gleaming flask and took a long drink. "Ahh," he said at
length. "Do you have much ulcer trouble on Centaura?"

The girl looked at him, startled. "You are very shrewd, Pell. I hope
you won't become too clever for your own good."

Out of the corner of his eye Pell saw her hand creep for the pocket of
her jumper and it occurred to him that silence would possibly be wiser
at that.

       *       *       *       *       *

The voice of the driver broke in from the front seat. "Miss Helmuth,
the DIC patrols are thick around here--we had better head out of town."

The girl looked through the plastine rear window and the dim glow of
the street lamps etched lines of strain about her mouth. "You're right,
Heintz. Slip out of the traffic and head for the space port."

Heintz grunted affirmatively and presently the black speeder emerged
from the traffic and roared out of the city, leaving behind the red and
black DIC patrols aimlessly searching the city for Pell and the unknown
killer of the DIC agent.

The girl turned to him once more and began to speak--rather cautiously,
it seemed to Pell.

"We have been looking for you for a long time, Pell," she said. "It was
only by the purest accident that we found you in time to save your life
tonight.

"Formerly you were a space pilot--in fact you owned a business. But
you were crushed by the Drake Interstellar Corporation, even to the
extent of losing your license. And now the DIC, taking no chances with
you, is determined to kill you. Because you are a hunted enemy of the
DIC _and_ a space pilot, we felt that you might be interested in our
proposition."

"And what is that?" Pell asked.

"If you are to remain alive," she replied, "you must leave Earth. But
you have no ship. I have the ship and also want to leave Earth, but
cannot without a pilot."

"Then why don't you simply hire a licensed pilot and be done with it?"
Pell asked, his eyes narrowed.

"No licensed pilot would accept the job."

"Then how do you know I will?"

"Have you followed in the daily papers the account of the Junta on
Centauri V?" she countered.

Instantly Pell realized the fantastic truth. Indeed he had heard of
the coup. Insurgents had successfully taken over the government and
were keeping the DIC warships at bay with planet-mounted blast rifles.
But speculation was rife in the daily papers as to how long they could
hold out with their limited supply of U-235, for it was the colonial
policy of the DIC-controlled Earth Government never to allow more than
a meager amount of the universal fuel to be shipped at any one time to
a colonial planet.

With growing amazement, Pell realized that the girl was an agent of old
Matt Faradson, the leader of the revolt. And her purpose here on Earth
was now obvious to him. He felt a quick rise in sympathy for her, but
kept it out of his voice.

"In other words, you want me to pilot you and a load of U-235 to
Centauri V?" he asked bluntly.

The girl nodded. "We have managed to secure secretly five kilos of
U-235 and it is now stored in the ship's cadmium and graphite vaults.
With it, Faradson will be able to stand off the constant skirmishing
attacks of the DIC until he can build his own refining plants."

Pell whistled softly to himself, his mind busy on the train of thought
the girl had presented. Of course, the Earth Government was little more
than a semblance of democracy now; its short-sighted actions of more
than two hundred years ago had brought it to its present situation
where it was little more than a mouth-piece of huge economic empires
like the Drake Interstellar Corporation, one of the largest.

When the planets of the solar system had been opened up for
exploitation, the Earth Government rashly granted proprietary charters
to the corporations to handle them. And even then, two hundred years
ago, colonial trouble existed. As a matter of fact, they prompted
Earth's decision not to allow the refining of U-235 anywhere except
Earth, although it could be mined on any planet and shipped to Earth
for refining. It was this control of the universal power source
that enabled the Earth Government to hold the colonial planets of
her interstellar empire in such tight rein. And the DIC practically
controlled the Earth Government, so there it was.

Faradson's Insurgents had revolted against that control. In addition
they wanted an equal and democratic voice in the Earth-Mars-Venus
Federation, as well as freedom to manufacture their own U-235.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pell looked up at the girl thoughtfully. He noticed that she had
been watching him anxiously, apparently awaiting his reply to her
proposition.

"Okay," he said at last. "I'm game. Now how about answering a few
questions for me, Miss ... ah ..."

"Helmuth, Margaret Helmuth--but I prefer Gret. What are your questions?"

"That was one of them," Pell replied, grinning. "Why don't you get one
of your own men to pilot the ship?"

"Colonials are not allowed the mastery of space navigation or
piloting. It's a security measure," she replied simply. "They are
allowed to master space mechanics, however. Heintz is your mechanic,
incidentally." She indicated the man in the front seat behind the wheel
of the speeder.

"How about weapons? Why do you use such a cumbersome, ancient thing
like that pistol?"

Gret Helmuth laughed. "I see you know very little about colonial
affairs, Pell. Of course we are not allowed the use of atomic
weapons--that would make revolt all too easy. And naturally I could
not risk acquiring one here.

"You see, almost all of our technology is geared on a twentieth century
level. Only the DIC-controlled power stations and their mercenary army
on Centaura are allowed the use of atomic power and weapons."

Pell shrugged and looked at the dark countryside rushing past the
speeder. He had not known that it was really as bad as all that.
Obviously the colonials had good reason for their revolution. And now
it was up to him to run a DIC blockade and deliver five kilos of U-235
to the revolutionaries. Absently he put a cigarette in his mouth and
flicked the stud of his lighter.

Gret Helmuth's startled whistling gasp snapped him out of his revery.
Even Heintz grunted audibly from behind the wheel and the speeder
swerved slightly as it sped down the road.

Pell stared from one to the other with surprise. "What's the matter
with you two?" he asked.

"That--that thing you're lighting that cigarette with! What is it?"
Gret gasped.

"Oh!" Pell laughed. "I see you're not very familiar with Earth
technology," he mocked. "This is a 'Rippo Little-Blast Dandy Atomic
Cigarette Lighter.' Cute little novelty, isn't it?"

He flicked the stud again, demonstrating its pale blue flame. In spite
of herself, Gret shuddered. Heintz sputtered something in the front
seat which Pell didn't quite catch.


                                  II

Silently the speeder drove down the ramp past rows of cradled space
ships. In the darkness Pell could see very little more than their
shadowy shapes. Over on the east part of the field Pell could make out
the nightly DIC liner to Mars loading passengers. He wondered vaguely
what kind of a ship they were using. From what Gret had said about not
desiring to attract attention, he was already a little dubious.

Smoothly the black speeder drew to a halt and Pell got out to examine
the little ship before him. It was an obsolete Mark III interceptor.
Pell whistled softly as he looked at the hull where huge flakes of
rust were apparent, even in the dim light. Its jets were in bad
condition; their surfaces were corroded and scarred, but he noted with
satisfaction that they had recently been scraped clean of exhaust
deposits. Followed by the girl and Heintz, he entered the air-lock and
looked at the interior of the ship.

"Let me show you the fine points of this can, Pell," the fat man said,
switching on the illumination. He squeezed by Pell and shoved his
ungainly body up the passage-way to the control room.

When Pell entered, the fat man's face was creased with a smile that
extended from one huge ear to the other on his tiny bullet head.
Proudly he pointed at the celestial globe for extra-dimensional
navigation.

"Ain't that a beauty? And here's the Thelmard Distorter Generator.
Installed it myself, just this afternoon."

With a sinking feeling, Pell stared at the incomprehensible maze of
cables that spewed out of the thing and slithered across the deck to
their unknown destinations. Heintz squeezed by him again and thrust
himself back through the narrow passage-way to the waist where Gret
Helmuth was waiting.

Heintz demonstrated the jerry-built uranium vaults which had been
welded hap-hazardly to any convenient spot. "It's all there," Heintz
beamed. "Enough to last ten years."

He motioned for Pell to follow him and disappeared into the stern of
the ship.

Pell emerged a few minutes later, his face an unnatural shade of green.
With great deliberation he lowered himself into one of the shock chairs
and looked up at Gret Helmuth helplessly.

"That creaky converter won't even get us off the ground, much less take
the hyper-space jump," he said.

She looked at him coolly and replied, "This is the best we could do,
Mr. Pell. If you are afraid, you can back out now, but--" she produced
the ancient automatic pistol she had used with such deadly effect
earlier in the evening, "I warn you that I will have to kill you if you
do. We cannot take chances."

Pell looked at her eyes. They were bleak and frosty and as hard as blue
diamonds. He knew she meant what she said. He shrugged. With everyone
apparently intent upon erasing him, it didn't make too much difference
where he died. And he would certainly prefer death in space rather than
in some back alley.

"Okay, baby, I'll pilot this tub. But you'd better be ready to get out
and push!"

He turned to go forward, then stopped as if remembering something. "You
realize that this ship is strictly contraband, don't you?"

She nodded. "So?"

"So we simply cannot pass the Geiger Check."

"Then we shall blast off without it," she replied, woman-like.

Pell laughed harshly. "Before we reach the Heaviside the planet-mounted
blasters will fry us to a cinder!"

She was still unperturbed. "Then you must figure a way to get us off
without that happening," she replied. "After all, you're the pilot."

Pell spread his hands helplessly. "Ah, woman, thy logic is flawless,"
he muttered half-aloud.

Thoughtfully he looked through the waist port at the liner which had
almost completed loading. An idea struck him. He turned to the girl
again.

"Get Heintz and harness yourselves in those shock suits. And use these
shock chairs in the waist--they're safer. We will blast off the instant
that liner does."

       *       *       *       *       *

In spite of the iron control which had kept her face impassive, Gret
Helmuth gasped.

"Do you think we can evade the planet-mounteds by that means?" she
asked, her outlander accent very apparent.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. They won't be able to shoot even if
they track us both all the way to the Heaviside because they won't know
which one is us. But when we hit Heaviside, they'll know--our ship will
be pushing 20 G's and the liner a miserable four. We should be out of
their range by then, though. However, don't count on it too much--we'll
have every DIC warship in the system on our tail and we may have to
fight yet." He turned and disappeared up the little passage-way.

In the control room Pell wriggled awkwardly into the ungainly shock
suit that would enable him to live during tremendous accelerations.
Squeezing in behind the massive board, he seated himself in the
throne-like shock chair and flipped on the inter-com.

"Pell to waist ... can you hear me?"

"Gotcha," the voice of Heintz came over. "We're ready."

"Are the blasters on this tub armed, Heintz?"

"Yeah. Armed 'em myself this afternoon."

"Cross your fingers ... Pell out."

Briefly the electros shrieked up the scale to inaudibility followed by
the muffled, reluctant keening of the converter. Pell looked through
the forward plastine observation shield. The liner was also warming up
its converters; occasionally a shower of red-hot cinders flew out of
the blast pit as the pilot gunned his converters. Any minute now ...
there it was!

Slowly the huge liner wallowed from its elevated cradle cushioned on a
pillar of blue flame. Pell opened his own feed valves a trifle and his
primitive converter responded nicely, thrusting the Mark III out of its
cradle and up after the passenger liner. Slowly Pell advanced the feed,
trying to match the liner's lift. Presently he lost sight of the liner
as its speed mounted, but he was familiar with the trajectory it used
and he followed it at four G's.

His vizer light was blinking an angry red. He flipped it on and the
corpulent, blotched face of a petty official blossomed out of the gray
nothingness of the screen.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he blustered at Pell. "If you do
not decelerate at once, I shall order the planet-mounteds to fire on
you!"

Pell tried to force a blank look on his face. "What do you mean, sir?
This is a DIC passenger liner headed for Mars. Didn't we pass the
Geiger Check?"

The official looked sick. Then his face became an enraged, mottled red.
"If you think you can get away with this...." he sputtered.

Pell laughed at him and flipped the vizer off. He looked at his
instruments ... another minute now. The back of his shoulders crawled
as he contemplated the unpleasant possibility of a planet-mounted
blaster burning the little ship to a cinder. Over his vizi-phone he
heard the official trying to contact the liner. Again he looked quickly
at his instruments. _Now!_

Savagely he opened the converter feed valves and the little ship leaped
forward. His fingers played with practiced ease on the jet keys,
forcing the ship into a wildly spiralling trajectory. Its path soon
resembled a jagged fork of lightning. Let 'em try to get a fix on that,
he reflected.

Far off to his left he fancied he saw the dim, almost-spent radiance
of a blaster probing for him. Laughing to himself, he straightened the
course of the ship and piled on the acceleration. Like the second hand
of a clock, the acceleration dial moved up the scale.

An eye-searing 12 G's ... then 15 ... 18.... Finally the needle came to
quivering rest at a lung-torturing, bone-crushing 20 G's. The converter
screamed just above audio-frequency. The wheezy thing seemed to be
pushing like a little trooper, Pell reflected.

His inter-com crackled for a moment, then he heard the labored voice of
Gret Helmuth.

"Nice work, Pell. Do you think there will be any more trouble getting
out of the system?"

"No, but hold tight, just in case. How's Heintz?"

"He's ... asleep."

Pell grunted to himself. He was worried about the fat man; the
acceleration wouldn't do his heart much good. He tried to settle back
in his shock suit more comfortably, then realized that the acceleration
held him like a vise. Already the oil-cushioned buoyancy pads seemed
to thrust into him like spikes. Breathing deeply, he manipulated the
massagers in his shock suit.

Just beyond Orbit Luna, Pell gradually swung the nose of the ship
toward the nadir of the solar elliptic and the ship streaked out of the
system. Turning up the detectors to full sensitivity, Pell tried to
relax and sleep--because sleep was actually the only thing to do under
tremendous accelerations.

       *       *       *       *       *

Painfully Pell awoke. He let his eyes flicker over the instruments and
nodded with satisfaction as he saw that the ship's velocity had reached
400 miles per second. Stiffly he cut the converter to one G and locked
in the robot controls. Instantly the tremendous weight was removed from
his body. He shrugged out of his shock suit with every bone in his body
aching in discord.

When he had clambered through the narrow passage-way to the waist he
saw that Gret was likewise divesting herself of the cumbersome garment.

"We're pushing 400 a second now," he reported. "In another 20 hours we
can drop into hyper-space. How's it going back here?"

Gret indicated Heintz who seemed to be asleep. But the ragged gasps of
his breathing belied this; Pell knew he was unconscious.

"He's been like this since blast-off--his heart, I believe," she stated
matter-of-factly.

Pell frowned. "I was afraid of that. We'd better give him some amytal."

He rummaged around in the medical kit and brought out a hypo. He jabbed
Heintz and eased him back into his harness. The fat man's breath became
more relaxed and even. Then a question occurred to Pell.

"By the way, why didn't you let me know over the inter-com that Heintz
was in this shape?" he asked her.

"You would have cut acceleration and we would have lost time--maybe
even have been blasted. If the same thing had happened to me, Heintz
would have acted as I did." Her soft, tanned features were hard and
single-minded determination blazed from her eyes.

"Pell," she continued, "if I don't come through this, you must deliver
the U-235 one way or another."

Pell considered that "one way or another". It sounded ominous and he
wondered what it meant. He asked her.

She answered bluntly. "DIC has a swarm of blockaders covering the
planet. Nothing can get in or out, except with the greatest risk."

"Have you got any ideas?" he asked.

"No. We are depending on you for that. But there is one way that can't
fail. We can drop into hyper-space, evade them, and drop out over the
planet. The U-235 is indestructible. They'll find it in the wreckage."

She said it so simply that Pell shuddered in spite of himself. It was
nothing more than a proposal of suicide. To drop from hyper-space in
the neighborhood of any mass would set up a space-strain that would
crush their ship like an egg.

He looked at her thoughtfully. Even in her rough plasto cover-all she
was strikingly beautiful. But blue eyes that should have been soft and
deep were hard and icy with determination. Her delicate red lips were
crushed in a straight brutal line and a beautifully molded chin was
out-thrust stubbornly.

Pell chuckled, then said, "You don't seem to remember that you are
dealing with a drunken bum whom you picked out of a gutter, Gret. But
even though I don't claim to have any ideals and principles, I am a
space pilot, not a kamikaze. If there is no better way than that, we
won't do it."

She stared at him with disgust in her eyes. "I thought you were a man,
not a coward!"

The words stung Pell. Savagely he gripped her arm and snarled, face
close to her, "I don't give two cents for your paltry revolution and I
certainly don't intend to die in it. Furthermore, I don't particularly
give a damn for you and your refrigerated ways. But then I suppose all
of you colonial peasant women are of the same mold." He sneered.

_Whack._

His face stung and his eyes smarted from the strength of her slap. Her
eyes blazed at him furiously.

"Faradson is depending on this Uranium. It will get to him regardless
of the means." She produced the ancient automatic pistol. "If there is
no other way, I shall force you to do my bidding with this!"

Pell looked at her contemptuously, turned, and groped back to the
control room. When he shrugged into his shock suit, she entered
similarly clad. She still held the weapon and her eyes were icy. Her
mouth twitched out of control. She seated herself in the shock chair
beside him, saying nothing.

Pell switched his gaze from the dials before him to her face. With a
leisurely motion he reached out, took her pistol, and thrust it into
his pocket.

"I'm getting tired of that thing, baby," he said.

He turned his attention back to the maze of instruments spread before
him on the control board and spoke to the girl again without looking up.

"You want speed? Well, baby, you'll get it, regardless of our fat
friend back there!"

He jerked his thumb back at the waist. The craft leaped forward,
slamming him back into the shock chair. The indicators trembled in
their pads and the acceleration needle registered 23 G's.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pell's head throbbed in rhythm to the shriek of the overworked
converter. He goaded his tired eyes to pierce the pain haze that filmed
them. The acceleration was more than 600 miles per second. His bones
had lead for marrow; each of his joints was a separate discord in a
cacophony of pains that tortured him. Bending his will with a great
effort, he cut the converter to one G.

Instantly the body-smashing weight lifted from him. For several moments
he did not try to move. His heart raced madly as the pressure was
removed from it. Pell breathed deeply and looked at the girl. She was
slumped forward in the shock chair but even as he looked at her, she
began to stir. In spite of himself, Pell felt a twinge of respect for
her.

He busied himself with the Thelmard Distorter Field. This would enable
the craft to drop into extra-dimensional space, so to speak, by
wrapping or folding space about itself. Working rapidly, Pell shot an
orbit in the celestial globe, computed it, and jotted some figures down
on a pad.

He looked over his shoulder at the girl. "We'll have to fall free for a
moment to go into hyper-space, so brace yourself."

He cut the converter entirely and his stomach reacted like that of
a diver with the bends. It almost literally tied itself in knots.
The girl moaned in pain and grasped the sides of the shock chair.
Pell's jaw hardened as he wound up the Thelmard Generator to build up
the field about the ship. The familiar stars danced and flickered;
then disappeared. He sighed and stepped up the converter to one G
acceleration.

He arose from his chair wearily and shrugged from his heavy suit.
Addressing the girl behind him, he said, "We won't be needing these
things for awhile. You had better go back to the waist and look at
Heintz."

Pell turned and looked at her. She was watching him curiously. Her face
was strained and lines were etched deeply about her mouth. Her eyes
were no longer cold; they were very tired.

"You're a strange man, Pell," she said at length. "I am sorry about ...
about that business of awhile ago."

Pell smiled. "I am sorry, too, Gret."

For the first time since he had known her, Gret Helmuth smiled. It was
a warm smile and it did strange things to Pell. Before she could reply
to his peace offering, his arms were around her and he kissed her. She
seemed to respond instinctively for a moment, then pushed him away.

She laughed and said cynically, "That was a rather obvious development,
wasn't it?" She disappeared down the narrow passage-way to the waist.

Pell savored the memory of her lips for a moment, then grimaced to
himself. She was right, of course.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched its tendrils stream around
the control panel and fluff against the plastine observation shield.
He tried not to look at the blackness outside because it hurt his
eyes. Men had been known to go mad from looking too long at the alien
strangeness of this extra-dimensional space which was not for human
eyes. Its very nothingness seemed to twist at one's mind.

He glanced at his instruments, then at the celestial navigation globe.
In normal space the ship had traveled some four and one-third light
years. But in hyper-space it had moved very little during the two hours
it had been under the Thelmard.

He turned to Gret. "We've arrived--at least that's what this thing
says." He patted the globe. "How's Heintz?"

"Okay now. I gave him some more amytal."

"Umm. That's dangerous stuff--be careful," Pell said. "We're going to
fall free again--watch it!"

He cut the converter and deftly cranked up the detectors to full
sensitivity. Then he held his breath as he cut the Thelmard and dropped
out of hyper-space for an instant. He jumped in spite of himself as all
hell broke loose. The detector alarm clamored deafeningly and its red
light blinked feverishly.

Throwing up the Thelmard again, Pell turned to the girl and mopped his
brow. "I don't think they caught us on their own detectors, but we
almost dropped out in their laps." He grinned.

"We now have a first class, double-barreled problem on our hands. This
bucket has momentum amounting to about 600 miles per second. We've got
to get rid of that. But if we do it too soon the DIC boys will be able
to match our speed. And if we do it too late, we'll make quite a puddle
on Centaura.

"Naturally," he went on, "they've concentrated most of their strength
at zenith and nadir. So we'll drop out of hyper-space in the elliptic
and try to fall in free from there. They won't be able to detect us for
quite a while and they won't be able to match our 600 miles per second
in time to catch us. But I'm afraid we'll have to run the gauntlet of
DIC cruisers already in position."

He glanced at her. Excitement burned two red spots high on her cheeks.


                                  III

Sixty-five million miles out beyond the huge red ball of Centauri VI
the small space ship suddenly dropped into normal space. It pitched
drunkenly, every separate member of its construction squealing in
protest. Pell realized they were all too close to mass, but it couldn't
be helped.

At 600 miles per second the ship hurtled toward Centaura, steadily
eating up the distance. He cut the converter and every other power
source in the ship except the detector sensitives which he fastened to
his wrists. On DIC radar the little Mark III would be a black speck,
unnoticeable against the huge disc of Centauri VI, and the backlash of
enemy radiation detectors combined with their Heisenberg Factors ruled
that method out unless their ships were within a range of 500,000 miles.

The pale glow of the Alpha Centauri sun shed a dim illumination about
the control room. Pell turned to Gret and grinned recklessly at her.
"You'll have to put up with 72 hours of this--then the fun begins."

The slight motion of his head propelled his weightless body out of the
shock chair in which he had been sprawled. He instinctively extended
his arm to stop his upward motion and touched Gret's hand. He pulled it
slightly and she rose gently from the chair and into his arms.

There was warmth in her lips, but even more in her kisses.

The detector sensitives fastened to Pell's wrists had been twinging
more frequently and more painfully. They were less than five million
miles from their goal--only three hours from the blue-green disc that
blossomed and expanded even as they watched it in the screen.

"Better put on your shock suit, Gret. We've come as far as it is
safe--we've got to decelerate now," he said.

Grunting with annoyance, he tried to shrug himself into the weightless
garment which slithered about in his grasp. He flipped on the suit's
power and sighed with satisfaction at the gentle kneading of the
massagers. He clipped his liquid-cushioned eye-stops in place and
squeezed into his seat, putting on the helmet.

"Ready now, Pell," Gret's voice came out over the inter-com.

Pell grunted and began to wind up the converter. Somewhere deep in the
ship's bowels it began to sing up the scale as the starter electros
were clutched in. His detector began to clack and clatter busily as
its relays responded to the impact of DIC radar which converged on the
ship. Pell smiled mirthlessly as he fed full converter thrust to the
braking jets and waited expectantly for the detector to give him the
alarm.

It did so--soon.

The red warning lights flickered and the alarm clamored intermittently
up and down the scale. They had his position and orbit now.

The minutes of waiting piled up with agonizing slowness. Pell turned
down the sensitives of the detector. Its constant shrilling assaulted
his ear-drums painfully. Steadily he fed braking thrust to the forward
jets until the needle stood at a body-battering 19 G's. He turned up
the oxygen flow in his helmet with a flexing of his cheek muscles. His
backbone felt as if it were in imminent danger of being forced through
his body and blackness hung just off the edges of his vision.

Somewhere out there in that star-studded blackness was the enemy.
The main body was not in detector range yet, but it was there,
nevertheless. Jockeying into position, warming up their blasters,
swinging turrets to hair-line accuracy and waiting ... waiting....

His detector clattered determinedly now. Pell glanced at it. A brief
smile flitted over his hard, tensed features. At least two were out of
range.

Experimentally he flicked his blaster switch and was pleased with the
deadly cones of blue radiance which flickered from the gun snouts.

_There! And there!_ Converging above and below the nose of his ship
were swarms of deadly little two-man Mark IX's. Dimly he could make out
in the detector screen the deadly blue lattice-work of blaster beams
that awaited him.

Under this pressure his mind worked like a machine with the speed of
light, analyzing, rejecting, planning, replanning.... As they blew up
in size with fantastic speed on the screen, Pell acted like lightning.
In a blurring motion he cut the converter, fell free for an instant,
wound up the converter to the aft jets and thrust up--up, and suddenly
out of range.

But the enemy had anticipated his move. As he eased the thrust from the
aft jets, two points of light twinkled and blossomed in the duration of
a single heart-beat into his screen. A pair of DIC fighters! And they
had him like a cold pigeon!

       *       *       *       *       *

For one brief instant Pell was paralyzed and that was long enough for
the enemy. The whistling _whoosh_ of air escaping through a rent in the
hull died away as the automatic self-sealers went into action, but it
gave vivid testimony of the enemy's aim.

Reacting like a coiled spring, Pell jabbed his blaster switch, catching
one of the DIC fighters squarely in his sights. It seemed to fall to
pieces in the midst of the minor nova of its own disintegration. The
second enemy fighter flashed past like a bullet, but not before Pell
chewed off half its aft jets with his blasters.

For a moment he was in the clear. Quickly he examined the function
dials; found to his dismay that his aft jets were nothing more than
slag now, with all the tube connections severed.

"What ... what happened?" Gret gasped.

"We've been in a fight, baby, and we got a black eye," Pell cracked.
"But don't worry--I'll set this can down in spite of those missing
jets."

He bent over his instruments again, a furrow slowly forming between his
brows. That fight had taken time--too much valuable time. He had just
two hours to decelerate from the tremendous velocity of the ship to the
comparative slow velocity of Centauri V.

Discarding the last of his caution, he crammed all the braking thrust
possible on the ancient converter. Up--up went the gravity needle; up
past the red line at 23 G's; up past a heart-wracking 27 G's; up to an
inconceivable thirty gravities where it quivered sluggishly.

Pell's body weighed over two and a half tons! His eyes weighed five
pounds each and thrust agonizingly against their liquid cushion
transparent stops. The converter screamed its super-sonic thunder,
setting the separate members of the ship's body to vibrating madly.
Every moment was red-hazed agony of an eon's duration; every second a
year of exquisite pain.

The blue-green disc of Centauri V expanded visibly in the screen. Even
through the observation shield Pell could make out its crescent. The
brake jets were doing their work--but it would be a near thing--a very
near thing. Pell prayed that there would be no more fighters; aside
from the fact that he couldn't maneuver, he could still less afford to
lose the time.

When the ball of Centaura puffed over all the screen and its edges were
no longer visible, Pell broadcast the prearranged signal of recognition
to the planet-mounted blaster batteries below. Scrambled almost beyond
analysis and recognition, the acknowledging signal came back.

Suddenly Pell realized that Centaura's curvature had ballooned to
flatness and on the heels of that realization came the whispering,
high-pitched wail of a ship travelling at high velocity in thin
atmosphere. Rapidly the wail became an ear-shattering, sustained
screech and the small warning lights of the hull thermometers began to
glow redly.

Nose _outward_, rather than pointed _down_, Pell continued to brake the
ship with all forward thrust, depending upon the planet's attraction to
prevent him from hurtling off into space on a tangent and into the jaws
of the DIC fleet.

Pell never remembered how many times he blacked out, nor how many
revolutions of the planet he made. Shaking the ever encroaching
blackness from the borders of his vision, Pell had a fleeting memory of
a heavily-forested mountain flashing by beneath, followed by a fertile
plateau, a river, then mountains rising ahead.

Streaking over these with a cushion of fire thrust before it, the
ship hurtled at a visibly slower pace down a rocky gorge with jagged
mountains on each side. Then, decelerated almost to a stop, the
battered space ship seemed to poise for an instant, then turned over
gently and gouged a deep furrow in the soft ground. For perhaps 400
yards it smashed through low timber and came to a halt at the brink of
a small stream where the scream of rending metal finally died away.

The last thing Pell remembered was cutting out the converter.


                                  IV

Pell was first conscious of time--a duration between the recurring
sequence of pain jags. Gradually the pain left him to be transformed
into a dull ache which encompassed his whole body. Every separate nerve
end seemed to shoot subtle, rapid messages to his cortex, announcing
that they were not feeling well.

He opened his eyes; blinked them several times to shake the web of
blackness from them. He tried to move. Pure, unadulterated anguish
backlashed at him. With a mighty effort he concentrated his will on the
task of overcoming the surging wash of pain.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, gritting his teeth as agony swelled his
head. The ship was a crumpled mass of smoking wreckage. Pell noticed
dully through one of the shattered ports that it had scorched the area
in which it lay and its path through the low timber was charred and
black.

Suddenly he realized it was hot inside the shock suit--very hot. He
stooped over Gret and picked her up. He tried the air-lock in the
waist; it was jammed shut. But further aft he found a gaping rent in
the ship's metal skin. Gently he lowered her still form through it.

He returned to the waist and unharnessed Heintz from the shock chair.
Pell realized that the fat man was too ponderous for him to lift;
hence he dragged him awkwardly to the rent in the ship and stuffed him
through unceremoniously. Stopping only to pick up the kit of medical
supplies, Pell followed.

He stripped off his shock suit and looked at Gret anxiously. He took
off her helmet and saw that her face was very pale. Gingerly he pulled
her out of the heavy suit and felt in the medical kit for a stimulant.
Her gold-blonde hair fell across his arm lightly as he administered the
hypo. A touch of color began to come into her cheeks beneath the tan
and she breathed more easily.

He turned to Heintz and wrestled for a minute or two with his huge
body, trying to extricate it from the suit. The fat man's body sagged
lifelessly as if his joints were made of jelly. Cursing under his
breath, Pell upended him and dragged off the bulky garment.

Reaching for his wrist, Pell found his pulse with some difficulty.
Heintz still lived, but the accelerated shallow pumping of his heart
indicated that something would have to be done in a hurry. Hastily Pell
jabbed his arm with a hypo and watched Heintz anxiously until he felt
his pulse pick up with greater strength.

Sudden reaction hit Pell and he sat down heavily. For the first time he
noticed their surroundings. The crushed wreck of the little space ship
was poised on the brink of a small stream and faintly Pell heard it
tumbling over rapids in the distance. The stream disappeared around a
small rise in ground and to the right and left at a distance of perhaps
five miles, Pell could make out rocky escarpments of a mighty range of
mountains clearly defined in the light of the late afternoon sun. The
air had a distinct chill in it and Pell was on the point of returning
to the ship to try to salvage some garments when he heard Gret Helmuth
gasp. He bent over her as her eyes opened.

"Pell ... did we make it?" she asked painfully.

He smoothed the hair from her face tenderly and grinned. "Yeah, we made
it. But there isn't much left of the ship."

She tried to rise from her prone position and half succeeded when she
fell back with a moan.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pell laughed and said, "I wouldn't try that so soon, Gret. Better let
the corpuscles splash around before you do it again."

He made as if to rise, touching her hand. Instinctively it tightened
on his and he settled beside her again. The Centauri sky was a deep
cobalt blue and the wind was keen and bracing. He felt in his jumper
pocket for a couple of cigarettes and his atomic lighter. The novelty's
vicious looking, hazy blue flame made Gret jump in spite of herself and
Pell grinned.

At length the girl spoke. "Pell, I don't like the idea of waiting
around here. I mean ... well, I have a feeling that something is wrong."

Pell glanced at her. It was plain to see that she was worried and
uncertain; he could almost feel it as a tangible thing.

"How do you mean?" he asked her.

"Well ... for one thing, these hills. We're somewhere in the Cheon
Range and there were remnants of DIC mercenaries dug in here when I
left. They were holding out in an abandoned blaster tower around here
somewhere. If they should happen to be in the neighborhood--" She
shrugged.

Pell felt a distinct chill settle down the base of his spine. "If your
Insurgents are worth their U-235, they've tracked us on their radar.
They should be here any minute," he said reassuringly.

He rose and clambered into the ship through the rent in its side in
order to salvage some outer garments because the air was becoming
colder. When he returned from the ship to the place where Gret lay, he
noticed that she was trembling--and not from the cold.

"What's the matter, baby?" he asked, concerned.

She tried to smile at him. "We outlanders are a queer bunch, Pell.
We ... we hear things. There are men--many men down the valley and they
are fighting. Both groups want to capture this ship." She shrugged her
shoulders helplessly. "But--"

A memory of long-dead hackles rose along the back of Pell's neck.
Shadows were growing longer and in the west he could see Alpha Centauri
poised over the rocky rim of the mountain, ready to plunge beneath.

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly he heard it. Far down the valley carved in the living rocks by
the small stream came the sound of firing. And it was moving closer. He
looked at Gret who had scrambled to her feet; evidently she had 'heard'
this long before him. Silently he handed her the huge automatic pistol
which he had taken from her in the ship and tightened his hand on the
butt of the tiny blaster which he had taken from the body of the DIC
assassin whom she had killed that first night.

Breathing hard, they dragged Heintz to the lee of their ship to shelter
him from the fire. Then they waited. In the waning glow of the last of
the sunlight the woods off to the right took on an ominous appearance.
They could hear the sound of shooting quite plainly now, interspersed
with faint shouting. It carried well in the air which had become
bitterly cold. Pell strained his eyes in the direction of the firing
and for an instant he fancied he could see flashes. But which side was
which?

Suddenly Gret grabbed at his arm and motioned violently behind them
on the other side of the wrecked ship. Pell swore softly and crawled
swiftly around the slag heap of the aft jets, blaster in hand. Dimly he
could make out figures hurrying toward the ship in the cover of the
trees.

"Stop!" he called.

A bomb exploding among them could have had no greater effect. They
began to run helter-skelter for the ship, the weapons in their hands
leaping into life. The ragged hack and roar of their machine-guns and
pistols momentarily stunned Pell, but, recovering, he let loose with
his blaster. Its cone of blue radiance was bright in the gathering dusk
and Pell knew he had given up his position immediately, but he had no
choice. The running figures seemed to falter and fall in heaps--then
his blaster failed! Rapidly he checked it and found to his dismay that
the tiny thing needed recharging.

All at once the attackers were on top of him--and behind him! The
thunderous bark of Gret's automatic was suddenly stilled and on the
heels of that knowledge, Pell was dealt a staggering blow on the head
from behind.

Rough hands dragged him to his feet and dimly he realized he was
surrounded by a group of ragged, heavily-armed men. They looked at him
curiously, fingering their weapons uneasily. Finally a large man with
gimlet eyes came up to the group. He had an air of authority and the
men fell back with deference.

The large man looked at him closely and smiled. "Pell! I might have
known they'd have hired you. What did you bring us, Pell?"

Pell reeled. This man was Raul Gutridge, the man who had crushed
him out of business for the DIC. As a reward, DIC gave him what was
thought to be a soft job, that of commander of the colonial garrison on
Centaura.

Before he could answer, however, the large man had turned on his heel
and was surveying the demolished ship. "Wrecking ships as usual, I
see," he remarked with mock pleasantry. "No wonder your license was
revoked."

Pell realized one thing and only that. He must keep Gutridge out of the
ship! He could not let him find the U-235. Because with it, Gutridge,
in spite of his few numbers, could mop up the planet in only a few
days. The big man had ruined him once before; he must not be allowed to
triumph again.

"Times are tough for unlicensed space pilots on Earth," Pell began
casually. "You've got to work to eat. So I took the job of running
these two through the blockade."

"What two?" Gutridge asked, seeing only Gret.

Pell cursed himself. He had blundered again. Silently he indicated the
fat man sprawled under the ship.

Gutridge walked over to the recumbent Heintz and kicked him a couple
of times, but without succeeding in arousing him. Then he looked up at
Pell again.

"Still can't lie worth a damn, can you, Pell?" he observed. "I trust
you will pardon me while I look in the ship?"

Pell watched helplessly as he entered the ship. If only the Insurgents
would arrive in time!

When Gutridge came out, Pell knew he had discovered the secret. He
moved slowly, as if in a dream. For once his narrow gimlet eyes were
wide as he looked dazedly at his men. Then he pulled himself up and
turned to Pell solemnly. All he said was one word, but it shattered all
meaning and all reality for Pell.

That word was, "Thanks!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The sound of firing from downstream was much clearer and louder now.
Gutridge looked over his shoulder with a trace of anxiety and nodded to
one of his men. "Callen," he ordered, "take my guests back to the tower
and entertain them until I return. You'll have to carry this one--but
it won't be for nothing. I have something special in store for them."

Pell and Gret were yanked roughly away from their ship, while four men
labored heavily with the vast bulk of the fat man. After winding along
an obscure path in the woods, they emerged to find a steep cliff facing
them. The tortuous path rose sharply up its side.

"Hell!" one of the mercenaries panted. "Callen, we ought to chuck this
elephant over the cliff."

"Keep luggin' him," Callen directed. "The chief said he had a treat for
'em." He laughed unpleasantly.

Pell shot a glance over his shoulder. Gret was trudging apathetically
behind him. A pall of black discouragement fell over Pell. Hopelessly
he berated the ironic twist of fate which had delivered them into the
hands of the DIC mercenaries. To think that they had gone through hell,
only to deliver the U-235 to the enemy after all--better to have died
out there than this!

It was completely dark when the tired group of prisoners and guards
arrived at the encampment. The dim light of Centaura's half-risen moon
allowed Pell to make out a few details of the place. He realized that
it was nothing more than an abandoned planet-mounted blaster tower.
But the warrens in its base provided quite effective dug-outs for its
defense.

Pell and Gret were escorted to one of the lower levels of the blaster
tower itself. There they were shoved into a hard, bare room and Heintz
was dumped on the floor. The door closed behind them.

Heintz began to groan. The coldness of the floor added to the stiffness
already present in his joints. Pell bent over him anxiously. The fat
man had gone through a terrific strain and his recovery was quite
vociferous. Pell wondered how he could explain to him their bad luck.
Black despair seized him again as the fat man looked about their bare
room uncomprehendingly. Haltingly Pell explained. Gret Helmuth didn't
even bother to look up.

"... but as long as we are still alive, we can fight them," Pell
finished, trying to keep the hopelessness out of his voice.

Finally Heintz looked up at him. "You _would_ have to land us right in
the middle of the DIC, wouldn't you?" he snarled.

Then almost immediately he was sorry. "Forget it, Pell. You couldn't
help it."

For a long time they remained silent. Pell grasped the girl's hand in
his own, but said nothing. She looked up at him. Her eyes were empty
and the tiny lines of strain about her mouth seemed to have been etched
more deeply than ever. Pell vowed to himself that he could erase those
lines in spite of everything that was arrayed against them. He kissed
her and she responded absently.

Suddenly she buried her head under his chin and embraced him tightly.
For a moment he thought she was sobbing, but she looked up at him,
clear eyed and determined.

"I love you, Pell," she said softly. "If ... if we--"

Pell knew what she was going to say and shushed her gently with his big
hand over her mouth. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by
the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. Gutridge entered,
his face flushed with triumph.

"You are indeed kind, Pell," he said mockingly. "Five kilos are more
than enough for our little task. You will be well rewarded." He laughed.

Pell guessed only too well what the reward would be. Death! Death for
all of them. He felt a surge of bitter hate for Gutridge's mocking
face. He wanted to batter it to a red pulp with his fists.

Raul Gutridge smiled infuriatingly and turned to Gret. "I believe you
know of Major Dallard, do you not?" he asked her. "That was his yokel
militia outfit we were scrapping with at the ship. I'm going to save
you for a while--I want to give you a lesson in military tactics. I
intend to show you the tactical hopelessness of attacking an enemy
armed with atomic weapons."

Like an angry cat she lashed out at him, striking him across the face.
Her nails left four bleeding welts. "You ... you sadist!" she burst out
helplessly.

Gutridge moved toward her angrily. At the same instant Pell sprang at
him like a coiled spring. Gutridge reeled back as Pell's flying body
staggered him. Two of the guards at his side, caught unawares for an
instant, jumped on Pell and threw him to the floor. They kicked him a
couple of times, then yanked him to his feet and dragged him through
the door after Heintz.

Dazed, Pell realized that he and Heintz were being separated from the
girl. He remembered that Gutridge had not left the room with them, but
had remained with Gret. A wave of hate for the DIC mercenary washed
over him, choking him.


                                   V

As they reached the ground level of the tower and prepared to descend
into its unknown depths, Pell could hear firing in the distance. They
were using weapons that had been obsolete for three hundred years.
In spite of what Gret had said, Pell had not really comprehended the
significance of her statements in that respect. He was bitter at the
shrewdly ruthless policy of the Earth Government. Gutridge wasn't
joking when he said the colonials under Dallard wouldn't have a chance
when he got his atomics into action. If only Dallard could fight into
the fortress in time....

But even as the thought flitted through his mind, he crushed it out.
Dallard would need days, not hours, to penetrate this labyrinth.

For perhaps ten minutes they were escorted deeper and deeper into the
underground fortress. The twisting passage-ways threw Pell's sense of
direction for a loss immediately, but he did remember the long descent
in an auto-dropper before they reached the level of their prison.

Finally they turned off into a side corridor which was damp and
illuminated only faintly. The walls as he brushed against them were
cold to the touch. One of the guards opened a door in the seemingly
blank surface of a wall and grunted at Pell.

Shrugging, Pell followed Heintz inside and turned just in time to see
the heavy metal door slide back into place.

Sighing, Heintz lowered his vast bulk to the cement floor and surveyed
the cell gloomily. Then he looked up at Pell and said, "Boy, if this
ain't a mess! If I know anything about atomics, we got about two hours
to figure a way out of this clink. Gutridge has one technician who's a
genius when it comes to atomics--guy named Bede. That devil will have
those blasters ready in no time."

Pell swore to himself and nervously paced the cell looking for a
ventilator opening--anything that would allow him to gain egress from
the cell. His eyes roved restlessly along the walls seeking for a fault
or opening in its maddeningly smooth surface. At last he found the
vents--a small series of holes located high in the wall opposite the
door. Straining on tip-toes, he managed to insert his little finger in
one of them, only to meet with a steel mesh screen inside.

Cursing fluently, he flopped down beside Heintz on the floor and stared
moodily at his surroundings. The fat man beside him was morosely
searching his pockets for a cigarette. He found one at last and began
to tinker with his cranky lighter. Pell watched him curiously as he
fumbled with its primitive flint. Taking pity on him, Pell produced his
own lighter, flicked the stud and held it toward Heintz. The fat man
jumped and looked at him reproachfully.

"Say!" he protested, "Don't scare me like ... like...." He broke off,
his eyes wide with the dawn of an idea.

"Pell!" he blurted eagerly, "that thing will cut through these walls
like butter!"

"Huh?" Pell grunted, startled.

"Yeah," Heintz asserted excitedly. "That gadget of yours will carve out
the lock on that door in two shakes."

"Through _decyte_ alloy? Not in your life time!" Pell replied sadly.

"Hell, bright boy, you ain't in an Earth jail. Those walls are steel,
nothing more."

It was Pell's turn to be excited. Hastily he rose to his feet and
approached the door. He examined the metal surface and saw that the fat
man was correct.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thoughtfully he looked at the lighter in his hand. On Earth it was
nothing more than a triviality--a novelty that could be acquired
anywhere. But here! Yes, here it might be a means to salvation. There
was just a chance, he reflected. The whole culture on Centaura seemed
to be geared on a pre-atomic level of technology except for the blaster
towers. And even the builders of those fabulous machines for defense
never considered the possibility that they might be attacked from
within. Such things as atomic lighters on Centaura were not dreamed
of; jail cells would not be constructed of _decyte_ alloys that could
resist their weak blasts. He looked at the black metal cylinder in his
hand; flicked it tentatively and smiled at its short blue flame.

Holding his breath, Pell felt along the lock edge of the door for
indentations that would indicate the critical bolt joints. But it was
completely smooth and he was able to find nothing.

"Whatcha think?" Heintz asked from behind him.

Pell shushed him frantically. "Pretty good, I think. But don't speak so
loudly--I don't know whether there's a guard out there."

He bent to the edge of the door and pressed the stud of the lighter.
Its small beam began to chew into the steel sheeting around the lock.
With agonizing slowness the beam cut into the steel until it reached a
depth beyond which it would not penetrate. Pell released the stud and
tinkered with the lighter with the thin edge of a coin.

Then he directed it again at the door. Its seemingly innocuous blue
flame was brighter and longer. It cut into the steel with renewed vigor.

Suddenly there was a small snap and the door slid slowly back into the
wall. Pell crouched, ready to spring upon the guard. But there was
none. The corridor was empty and silent as a tomb. Pell glanced at his
watch and the need for haste was pressed more firmly than ever upon
him. An hour gone by already!

He crept cautiously into the corridor with Heintz on his heels. It was
dim and damp; the moisture seemed to congeal on his brow like sweat.
With Heintz dogging his footsteps like some huge, bloated shadow, Pell
approached the main corridor. It, too, was deserted.

He turned to Heintz and asked in a low voice, "Where do you think they
keep the atomic weapons?"

Heintz shrugged and grunted, "Probably on some higher level--some place
they could reach in a hurry from the tower. Pell, if we could grab one
of those blasters...." He left the thought unfinished, but Pell knew
what he was thinking.

They reached the main corridor. Cautiously Pell looked up and down its
long, deserted length. The lines about his mouth were tense and hard.
If they should be caught--he motioned for Heintz to follow.

They had not gone more than fifty feet on the main corridor toward the
automatic elevators when one of them suddenly opened and out stepped a
uniformed DIC mercenary!

Pell sighed under his breath and muttered to Heintz, "Pay no attention
to him--just keep walking as casually as you can. When we reach him,
we'll jump him and take his guns."

There was a single affirmative grunt from his rear. Pell watched
the soldier tensely while the latter regarded them with a blank and
incurious stare as he approached them. Suddenly a flash of suspicion
crossed the mercenary's eyes and he slowed his pace uncertainly. Pell
was no more than twenty feet from him when he charged, Heintz lumbering
at his heels.

With an oath, the mercenary dragged at the heavy automatic pistol at
his side. The impact of Pell's body sent him sprawling to the hard
surface of the corridor. Like a cat, Pell scrambled on top of him and
proceeded to throttle out the cries of the soldier. Heintz pulled him
roughly aside and picked up the soldier with one hairy paw on the
collar of his jacket and the other over his face, completely eclipsing
it.

Swiftly Pell snatched the man's pistol from its holster and slipped
it into his pocket. Then he unslung the soldier's machine-gun and
handed it to Heintz. Motioning toward the auto-dropper from which the
mercenary had just stepped, Pell helped Heintz shove the struggling
soldier inside and let the door slide shut.

Heintz released the enemy soldier who immediately began to howl loudly.
The fat man shook him and he ceased his useless cries. Terrified, he
looked from Heintz to Pell and back again.

"Where's the atomic armory?" Pell asked.

The man remained silent.

Pell repeated the question more vigorously, but still the man remained
silent.

Heintz unslung the captured machine-gun and pointed it at the other. He
fumbled curiously at its levers and spoke softly, as if to no one in
particular. "I wonder how this thing works--now, if I pull this thing
here...."

The soldier looked pleadingly at Pell, but he merely yawned and watched
disinterestedly.

The man made a strangling noise and capitulated. "Okay, you win. The
sixth level--that's up." He looked again at Pell. "Tell that idiot to
put that thing away," he pleaded.

Pell didn't answer, but looked at the controls for a moment. Then he
pressed the appropriate stud and turned to Heintz.

"I'll cover this fellow while you keep that gun ready. Just to prevent
anything from going wrong, we'll let him walk in front of us with his
hands in his pockets and his mouth shut," he said, nodding meaningly at
the prisoner.

Heintz grunted and held the machine-gun at ready as the elevator
drew to a stop. The door whined open softly and Pell tensed. Before
his startled eyes a swarm of men hurried up and down the corridor,
apparently too intent upon their business to notice Heintz and Pell.

He was about to let the door close again when Heintz stopped him. He
pointed significantly at an instrument that flashed above the heads of
the hurrying men. Like lightning Pell realized that it was a Geiger
Counter and that it was registering the presence of Uranium!

"Come on, Pell. They won't notice us," Heintz called over his shoulder
as he stepped from the cage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Boldly he walked into the corridor and melted unnoticed into the crowd
of excited, hurrying soldiers. Pell followed him, his hand on the cool,
heavy pistol butt and the enemy prisoner preceding him with his hands
sunk in his pockets. As the crowd of men jostled and pushed about him,
Pell could hear breathless bits of conversation.

"... blasters--yeah, real atomics. Bede will have 'em in shape in a few
minutes."

"... hell, not a chance. Not when we turn those blasters loose."

Pell went slightly sick. He saw that the main stream of men were
pouring into a corridor with a dead end. Tightening his hold on the
pistol butt in his pocket, he shoved his prisoner after them.

Then he noticed that they were waiting at the heavily-guarded entrance
of a room and it dawned upon him that they were about to be issued
blasters.

Quickly he surveyed the situation, noticing the position of the guards
at the room's entrance, and made his decision. Drawing the pistol from
his pocket, he jammed it into the captured mercenary's back and began
to shoulder his way boldly through the uncomprehending crowd. As he
approached the door he saw a surging around it, then suddenly all hell
broke loose.

_Berada-da-da-da-da-da_.... Instantly Pell realized that Heintz had
already gone into action. The men melted away from the entrance in time
to allow Pell to see Heintz shoulder his way through the half-open
door. Forgetting his prisoner, Pell jumped past the bodies of three or
four guards and entered the room, slamming the heavily reinforced door
behind him. Then he whirled, pistol at ready.

There were only four technicians in the armory and they were frozen
into an astonished tableau at the sight of a huge, bullet-headed, fat
man crouching before them with a machine-gun in his arms. Pell crouched
behind him, letting his glance flicker about the room. On the floor
were the cadmium and graphite vaults which had been ripped bodily from
the ship. Over half of them had been opened and strewn about the tables
were an array of hand-blasters undergoing the delicate process of being
charged with pellets of U-235.

Pell broke the short silence. "Don't move, any of you! Heintz, pick up
a blaster that's charged!"

Heintz shuffled forward cautiously to relieve a swarthy technician of a
blaster which had frozen in his hands when they had burst into the room.

"Okay, Bede, gimme that!" Heintz growled, poking his machine-gun toward
the technician.

His action seemed to touch off the fuse of a bomb. Suddenly the
technician leaped away from Heintz and leveled the blaster in his
hands. The other technicians leaped in unison for the tables, snatching
up blasters. Heintz fired at Bede, then whirled and loosed a long,
sustained burst at the other three.

But he reckoned without Bede who had fallen to the floor wounded, but
not dead. With a look of venemous hate he swung the blaster in his
hands toward Heintz and pressed the stud. Pell fired at him, once,
twice, then again, but even as the heavy automatic crashed in his hand,
Bede fired at Heintz.

Heintz exploded. With cataclysmic violence his body had vaporized in a
blue-white sheen of impossibly hot atomic radiance.

Pell became violently sick. Recovering, he looked dazedly at the
slaughter about him and realized that he alone was left to deal with
the situation. For the first time he understood how great an ally the
fat man had been.

Blind, unreasoning hate for the forces of the DIC surged into his
mind. He saw Gutridge's mocking face and it added fuel to the rage
burning fiercely within him. He recalled vividly that Gret was in his
possession and the fires of bitter hate blasted away all remnants of
his former caution.

Outside he could hear the mutter of DIC soldiers who were obviously
confused by the shooting of the guards and the sound of further
shooting inside. Then the steel-reinforced door began to quiver on its
hinges.

Pell slowly looked down at the ancient pistol in his hand and laughed
to himself. There was no further need for that thing, he reflected. He
threw it way from him and walked purposefully over to the body of Bede,
the dead technician. Without the slightest hesitation, he rolled the
bloody thing over and took the blaster from its lifeless hands.

He looked back at the door. The pounding had stopped, but he saw a
little white flame dancing and flickering around the lock. Pell smiled
a bit, leveled the blaster in his arms, and depressed the stud.

[Illustration: _Pell smiled, leveled the blaster and depressed the
stud._]

In an instant the steel door turned a dazzling white and began to
run into slag. The vicious, expanding cone of blue flame played on
it an instant more and suddenly it exploded into vapor. The knot of
mercenaries around the door disintegrated into exploding cinders. Some
of them on the outer edges even had time to scream.


                                  VI

A tremendous feeling of power surged in Pell. He strode into the
corridor and stood in the midst of the havoc he had created, letting
the hungry, hellish blaster play across a few fleeing figures trying
to make the elevators. He was unconscious of the overpowering stench
in the hot, searing, almost unbreathable air. He didn't notice that
the soles of his heavy insulated boots were burning as he stood in the
corridor. He realized now only that he held in his hands the instrument
that would enable him to carry out ruthless vengeance against Gutridge
and his DIC mercenaries.

The dead-end corridor off which the armory was located opened onto the
larger main corridor which led to the elevators. Pell padded silently
to the junction and walked boldly toward the automatic elevators which
would take him to the surface. He paused just once to let the blaster
play over the mouth of the dead-end corridor which led to the blasters.
The roof slowly collapsed in a shower of scorched cement, leaving the
lacy interwork of the reinforcing girders bare and skeleton-like.
The mass of hot rubble effectively sealed off the entrance to the
armory--for the time being, at any rate.

With that action, Pell realized that he was a god. Although not an
immortal god, certainly a god armed with a terrible destructive force
which was not immediately available to the others who might aspire to
be gods.

Pell looked at the devastation he had created and became uncertain
as to what to do next. Little thought tendrils of unreason whispered
at him, telling him to create a reign of terror throughout the
multi-leveled warren which was the foundation of the mighty blaster
tower. But he closed his mind to their pleasing prospects and his
jaw hardened at the thought of the job before him. He must go to the
surface and destroy the mercenaries' defense of the fortress. He must
help Dallard crack their resistance as soon as possible so that the
precious U-235 might be retrieved from its burying place and turned
over to the Insurgents.

Pell's eyes narrowed as he turned again to the auto-droppers. There
were so many things he would like to do with his weapon, but first
things first. Bleak-eyed Gret Helmuth who could become all woman in an
instant--she would have to wait. So would Gutridge. But not for long,
he promised himself.

He pressed the button which should send one of the cages hurtling to
his level, then take him back to the surface. The first time he pressed
the button, there was no response. Nor was there the second time. A
third time his hand moved impatiently toward the red stud, only to
freeze in the act as a familiar, hated voice began to crackle from some
hidden speaker in the walls. It was Gutridge!

"Pell! Pell! Can you hear me?" came the mocking voice. "You're trapped,
Pell. The droppers don't seem to respond, do they?"

The deep, penetrating voice chuckled, then went on. "Pretty soon your
head will become heavy and your eye-lids will want to drop. You will
want to sleep, Pell, because the gas is very powerful. Do you feel it
yet? Its nice stuff, Pell. You will want to sleep so much ... so much."

The heavy voice began to chuckle and its reverberations thundered
evilly in the deserted corridors. Pell found the source of the laugh
and blasted it furiously from its concealment high in the wall.
But from somewhere far down the corridor the powerful laugh echoed
ominously.

Fear began to crawl at his throat, constricting it. He must find
a stair-way. Surely there must be one! But would he have time?
Frantically he ran down the empty corridors blasting open doors as he
came to them. At last he found what he sought behind the gaping maw of
a blasted panel. Through the coalescing haze of the vaporized door he
saw stairs spiralling upward.

He was about to enter when he saw the first tendrils of smoky whiteness
reaching for him and plucking at him. Instantly he realized that the
heavy stuff was being forced down the stairwell. Holding his breath, he
retreated back down the corridor and let loose a blast from the weapon
cradled in his arms in an effort to seal up the shattered door. As he
retraced his steps back to the elevators, he realized that his head
was getting heavy. Vaguely he noticed the milky smoke issuing from the
corridor vents and he began to run.

But with each step his body became heavier and heavier and only the
greatest effort of will kept him from collapsing on his face. He knew
he was trapped. Desperately he goaded his tired mind to discover a
means to escape. Reeling, he reached the elevators, dimly conscious
of Gutridge's mocking laugh far down the corridor. The white haze
was thick and nauseating and it caressed his nostrils with cloying
sweetness.

Suddenly Pell saw a group of masked figures approach in the
sound-deadening haze. In what seemed an eternity he brought the blaster
up with tired hands and pressed the stud. As if in some horrible
nightmare, the figures seemed to shimmer and explode.

Desperately Pell strived to keep his legs under him, but they wobbled
in spite of his control and he fell. His arms and legs were mere dead
weight; he could no longer force them to do his bidding, not even to
the extent of releasing the stud on the blaster. A wave of heat struck
him mightily on the face, as if he had been thrust bodily into an
atomic furnace. Then from somewhere a draught of cool, pure air played
about him, washing the fumes of the nerve gas from his system.

       *       *       *       *       *

Astounded, Pell gasped in deep lungfuls of the precious air and
painfully stumbled to his feet. Slowly the incredible truth dawned upon
him. Accidentally he had blasted open the sliding steel door of the
elevator shaft and the cool breath of its untainted air had revived
him. Hastily he looked around him, trying to spot more of the enemy
creeping through the dense fog toward him. There were none; apparently
they had decided to let the gas do its work. They were in for a
surprise, Pell reflected.

An idea had occurred to him. He might just possibly escape the trap
by climbing up the inside of the elevator shaft. He strained his eyes
into the dimness of the shaft and found what he was looking for; a
frail-looking steel ladder which extended in both directions up and
down the shaft. Looking up, he tried to pierce its puddled blackness
but could see nothing. If a dropper should hurtle down out of that
blackness, he would be smashed to a bloody pulp. Grimly he thrust the
thought out of his mind, slung the blaster over his shoulder, and
leaped for the ladder on the far wall of the shaft.

It trembled dangerously as his writhing body struck it and swiftly he
began his long climb into the darkness above. For what seemed an eon of
agonizing effort, Pell hauled his weary body up the length of the steel
ladder. It stretched up and away into an infinity of blackness that
housed a sudden and terrible death. As he climbed, Pell strained his
senses in the all-enveloping darkness but could perceive nothing.

Suddenly his hand, groping for another rung, met nothing but emptiness
and for one terrifying moment Pell tottered off balance on the ladder.
Cautiously he felt about above himself and his hand collided with the
underside of a dropper which was suspended just over his head. Had he
reached the top? It was impossible to tell in the blackness. He had no
choice but to chance it.

Saying a silent prayer, Pell unlimbered the blaster and wrapped himself
about the tiny steel ladder as tightly as possible. Then he loosed its
devastating radiance at the wall opposite him. The brilliance of its
destructive flash blinded him momentarily as he clung tenaciously to
the frail ladder which whipped treacherously.

Blessed, precious light filtered in through the shattered door opposite
him. Clinging tightly to his blaster, Pell leaped for the opening in
spite of the fact that his eyes had not yet adjusted to the sudden
light. Pain jagged his eyeballs as his pupils strove to contract but
Pell ignored it as he took in his new surroundings with rapid glances.

The corridors of this wide, well-lit level were deserted and the air
was free of the deadly gas that had trapped him lower in the labyrinth.
Haste was the keynote now. From this point on, regardless of what he
did, he must do it quickly and decisively. He realized that he had not
yet reached the surface, although he knew he was very close.

His eyes narrowed as he considered the situation. He couldn't use the
stairs since they were flooded with gas. And at any minute he might see
the deadly, white tendrils of the gas issuing from the vents. There was
only one thing to do.

Sighing, Pell aimed the blaster at the ceiling and depressed the stud.
The innocuous-looking blue finger took huge bites from the heavily
reinforced cement and it cascaded down to the floor of the corridor
before him.

Ignoring its burning heat, Pell leaped for a drooping girder and hauled
himself painfully through the ragged hole to the corridor above.

Frozen with surprise, several DIC mercenaries watched a haggard,
blackened figure materialize suddenly from the midst of a gaping hole
in the floor. One or two fired wildly at Pell, but the majority fled
with terror up a low ramp nearby and through an exit at the top. Pell
ran after them, noting with relief that the soldiers wore no gas masks.

The ramp continued its sharp upward rise on the other side of the
exit. As he panted up its steep ascent, Pell felt the breath of cool
air touch his face; with it the sound of firing increased. Evidently
Dallard was attempting to storm the fortress. Breathlessly he hammered
up the slope on the heels of the fleeing men and ducked instinctively
as several shots were fired at him. He was out on open ground.
Swiftly he ran for the cover of a dump of bushes and dived into their
concealment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Centaura's lone satellite shed a strong light over the surrounding
ground and Pell was able to make out the dim figures of men around the
blaster tower. To his right the tower itself rose sharply into the sky,
the vicious helix of the blaster being etched by the moonlight into a
clearly defined blackness in the midst of the lesser blackness of the
star-studded sky.

To Pell's left the sound of firing was intense, the sharp, hacking bark
of machine-guns dominating the chorus. But ragged firing seemed to be
present everywhere, apparently indicating that Dallard's Insurgents
had attacked the fortress from all sides. The mercenaries seemed to
be firmly entrenched, but not so firmly that a little diversion from
the rear could not root them out, Pell thought, smiling mirthlessly.
Gripping the blaster tightly, Pell peered into the darkness to locate a
juicy target.

Beyond the clump of trees in which he was concealed there was a rise
in the rocky ground and silhouetted against the sky was a group of
men crouching around a machine-gun and firing it down the path up
which Heintz, Gret and himself had been brought. He had no doubts that
discovery would be only a matter of moments--no doubt word was already
being circulated about the madman with a blaster.

Grimly he brought the blaster to his shoulder and depressed the firing
stud. Instantly great gouts of dirt began a short-lived trip into the
night sky, including the machine-gun and its crew. The effect of his
sudden attack was instantaneous and confusing. The startled cries of
the mercenaries was like music to Pell's ears. But a more ominous music
was the faint, chopping whisper of bullets as they spattered through
his clump of trees. Ignoring them, Pell leveled the blaster at every
likely place in which the mercenaries might be entrenched.

Hell, in the form of violently reacting stones and rocks erupted into
the sky, showering the DIC soldiers with molten, lava-like droplets.
Seeking protection from the super-heated rain of molten particles, some
of the mercenaries panicked and fled to the blast tower that reared
bulkily behind them. Their action was like a trigger for others and
presently a whole mass of men were fleeing for the protection of the
tower. Heartlessly Pell let his ravening blaster play among the fleeing
men. And on their heels came a shouting, triumphant horde of ragged
Insurgents bearing antiquated weapons.

Some of them dropped, but most streamed after the terrified mercenaries
into the fortress. Although they did not know whom to credit for the
unexpected aid, they knew it was from a friend. Pell, infected with the
wild excitement of the Insurgents, threw caution to the winds and left
his hiding place to storm the warrens with them.

Somewhere in that mass of cement and steel were Raul Gutridge and Gret
Helmuth. For the Insurgents it was complete and utter triumph, but
for Pell it was a hollow victory unless he could find Gret alive and
Gutridge dead. His jaw was out-thrust with determination as he entered
the fortress with the Insurgents. The DIC had beaten him before,
crushing him out of business. But this time he was fighting with their
methods and he was determined to win.

As he shoved through the press of Insurgents down the ramp up which he
had come a short time before, the revolutionaries looked at him askance
and fingered their weapons uneasily. They muttered among themselves and
one of them turned to Pell.

"Who are you and where did you get that thing?" the man asked,
indicating Pell's blaster.

"I'm with you," replied Pell to the first question. "Where's Dallard?"
he asked, ignoring the second.

"Right behind you," replied a new voice from his rear.

Pell turned, startled. Behind him stood a slight man with the bearing
of an officer. But his cold blue eyes and the large ancient revolver he
pointed at Pell hardly betokened friendship.

"Who are you?" Dallard asked.

Briefly Pell explained, indicating his desire to find Gret and
Gutridge. When he had finished, Dallard whistled softly and looked at
Pell with new respect.

"We'll give you all the help we can, Pell--and in case we run into
some tough opposition, we'd like you to reciprocate--with that thing."
Dallard grinned and as he walked away with his men, called over his
shoulder, "Luck!"

Pell nodded absently and turned away, considering the almost hopeless
hunt that confronted him. Certainly they were no longer in the blaster
tower; obviously Gutridge had taken the girl into the depths of
the fortress when the Insurgents had attacked. Then the unpleasant
possibility that Gutridge might be holding the girl as a hostage
occurred to him. It added new drive to his purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pell's actions that night, had they occurred in another age, would have
been the fiber of a legend. He never remembered exactly what he did
himself and the accounts of the Insurgents who saw only a part of his
exploits were disjointed and inconsistent.

Suffice it to say that a haggard, smoke-blackened, wild man almost
single-handedly destroyed the last remnants of the DIC mercenary
army on Centauri VI that night. In the face of Pell's blaster they
surrendered faster than they could be captured. Points of resistance,
when they were touched by the deadly blue finger of the blaster,
vanished in violently reacting clouds.

Perhaps the toughest struggle of all was with a group of fanatical
mercenaries on the sixth level who were scrabbling desperately in the
rubble of the entrance to the dead-end corridor which led to the
atomic armory. Fearing that its violent energies would explode the
U-235 in the armory, Pell was unable to use the blaster against them.
Desperately the Insurgents stormed the level, only to be cut down
sickeningly by the trapped mercenaries. In the end, however, there
could only be one result and the weary DIC soldiers had no choice but
to surrender.

Pell's search was ended on the thirty-seventh level. Because of its
tremendous depth, this level was ventilated only with great difficulty.
The air, what there was of it, was close and sticky. The rumbling whine
of the ventilator turbine could be heard plainly as it labored to force
air into the dimly-lit, narrow passage-ways. The walls and pillars were
huge chunks of almost solid, heavily reinforced cement since they had
to support the ponderous weight of three dozen levels and the mighty
blaster tower itself.

Uneasily the Insurgents crept into the depths behind Pell and Major
Dallard. Pell himself was worried. The entire warren above had been
combed unsuccessfully for Gutridge and Gret Helmuth. The gnawing fear
that had tormented Pell burst out more powerfully. Suppose Gutridge had
taken Gret into these depths and was holding her as a hostage? Pell
shrugged grimly to himself and strained his eyes to pierce the gloom.

Suddenly the heavy silence that shrouded the place was broken by the
crackling of static and the sound of a well-known voice originating
from a speaker almost above Pell's head. It was Gutridge!

"I see you've discovered my hiding place, Pell," boomed Gutridge, his
voice reverberating in the tomb-like passages.

"I'm entertaining a guest," Gutridge continued. "I believe she is a
friend of yours. You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, would
you, Pell?" His laughter made the passage vibrate.

"Pell!" thundered the speaker, "I want a guarantee of freedom. In
return, I will deliver the girl unharmed. This is a two-way speaker, so
you may reply into it."

"How do I know she is alive?" Pell stalled desperately.

"You may speak to her," Gutridge answered. "Say a few words to the
gentleman, my dear."

"Pell!" Gret screamed over the speaker, "this whole place is mined. Get
out before he kills you all!"

Pell heard distinctly the sound of a meaty fist colliding with flesh
and bone, followed by Gutridge's muttering voice, "You talk too much,
my dear."

Rage--blind, helpless, unreasoning rage washed over Pell in prickly
waves. Then Gutridge spoke again.

"There you have it. I will give you two minutes to decide," the speaker
echoed. Its crackling subsided and only the hum of its open circuit
could be heard.

Then Pell felt a tapping on his shoulder. He turned and saw Dallard in
the dimness.

"Guarantee his freedom, Pell. Offer him a space ship," Dallard
whispered. "It's either that or he blows us all up. Personally, I am
not particularly in favor of dying--especially with him."

Pell grunted inaudibly and turned to the speaker. "Okay, Gutridge, you
win. Send the girl out first, then follow. You will be escorted to the
surface and given a ship."

Gutridge chuckled. "If it were anyone but the honorable Fletcher Pell
who made that promise, I'd balk. All right, she's coming out."

Straining his eyes in the darkness, Pell presently saw the slight
figure of Gret Helmuth approach. When she saw him, she broke into a
limping run and threw herself into his arms.

"Oh, Pell, I never thought I'd see you again," she cried, burying her
face in his shoulder.

Pell swore and looked up to see Gutridge loom out of the dark. The big
man had a small box in his hand which he waved debonairly at Pell.

"You know, just in case. This little gadget can transmit a radio wave
that will touch off the explosives," Gutridge chuckled. "That woman of
yours is bad medicine--she scratches like a wild cat."

Pell stifled his rage with difficulty, noting with small satisfaction
that his face, too, had sustained no small damage.

"Where's that space ship?" Gutridge asked, now all business.

Pell didn't reply, but gestured for the big man to follow and the party
made its way to the surface in an elevator that still functioned.

       *       *       *       *       *

A beautiful dawn was breaking, but it affected Pell not at all.
Morosely he stared through the plastine window of his cramped quarters
in the blaster tower.

Through the window he could make out the busy activities of the
Insurgents. Gingerly they had cleared away the rubble of the demolished
entrance to the armory and were now engaged in carrying the vaults of
U-235 out of the fortress.

As he watched them absently, the door opened behind him and Gret
entered, her brown gold hair gleaming intoxicatingly in the early
light. Even her rough jumper couldn't hide the fresh young curves of
her body.

"What's the matter, Grouchy?" she teased. "Still worrying about
Gutridge escaping?"

"Yeah," Pell growled. "As long as he's alive, the game isn't finished.
But--" he smiled "--I've got you. That ought to be enough for any
perfectionist."

He was about to kiss her when the door opened again and Dallard entered.

He looked from Pell to Gret and raised his eyebrows. "I trust I wasn't
interrupting anything," he drawled slyly.

"Oh, come in, Dallard," Pell said, although not very enthusiastically.
"How are your men coming along with the uranium?"

"Fine. Fine. But, I say, you're hardly the bright and cheery fellow one
would expect to meet this morning."

"He's worried about Gutridge escaping," Gret explained.

Dallard laughed. "Pell, haven't you heard about his ... ah ... little
accident? It seems someone forgot to inform the planet-mounteds that
our friend would be departing, so I'm afraid he's little more than a
cinder now. Frightful mistake, eh?"

He clucked innocently and, twirling his sandy mustache airily, walked
jauntily from the room.

Pell looked after him amazed, a small shudder running the length of his
spine. "You colonials are forgetful people, aren't you?" he observed.

"Perhaps," Gret replied, wrinkling her nose at him, "but sometimes it
pays."

"Well, in the future," Pell said, "don't forget I like my ham and eggs
in bed."