Kenneth Bulmer (17 page)

The
first person Howland saw when he stepped, a little stiffly from the flier, was
Terence Mallow.

"Mallow said, "Just the man I've
been waiting for. Step this way, Howland. And no nonsense."

Howland did not argue. Mallow held
a
gun in his hand. He wanted to use that gun, use it on Howland. But right
now he was enjoying himself too much to cut off the pleasure by that single
moment of pure joy.

So
Howland followed the others, went with Ramsy and Larssen and Randolph into the
central building. Mallow, Cain, Briggs, and their henchmen followed them, guns
ready.

Kwang
said, "I'm sorry, prof. Mallow jumped me when we were loading. Made us
drive straight out here. I couldn't do
a
thing.
His pals kept tabs on us all the way
..."

"For
one thing, Charley, my tum-coat friend, I'll not forget how you did me dirt
back on
Poseidon.
I've come for the loot—there's a lot left, I
know. You haven't paid any back as you said you would—as if you would! D'you
think I'm stupid?"

"We
shall, Terence," said Randolph. "There is an election going on in the
human section of the galaxy now. You may perhaps have heard of it. We intend to
pay the money back when the new government is in power. Not before."

"Yes, and not after,
either! For I'm taking it—all."

A
sense of complete despair settled on Howland. He now realized that he didn't
care a single tuppence damn about the money or what happened to it. He wanted
to five. He wanted to live and marry Helen and have children and become a staid
paterfamilias and also a great scientist—although he'd forgo that for Helen.
And he saw with
a
bilious fear that Mallow intended to kill
him.

"This
situation is quite like old times," Mallow said. "Just like it was
aboard the liner. Only now there is no whistle to blow, no sub-audio virus to
go to work for you. This time, Howland, you won't escapel" "No,"
said Howland dully.

The call went on at the radio board and
Mallow's head jerked around. "Now who the devil—?"

"I'd
better answer," Larssen said. His face was pinched. They'll wonder what's
gone wrong. .."

"All right. But no
tricks."

Larssen sat at the console. "Come in,
please."

"Calling
Pochalin Nine scientific base. Permission to land? We understand your
decontamination procedure and will follow exacdy."

"Who is that?"

This is Dudley Harcourt
speaking—"

"Dudleyl"
said Randolph. "What are you doing here, Vice-Chancellor?"

"Hullo, Cheslinl We've come to see how
the University's wonder boy is coming along. Stand by. We're landing now."

"All
right," said Mallow viciously, softly. They can land. We haven't put the
sight on so they don't know what they're walking into. They'll have to take
their chances along with the rest of you."

To his credit Randolph tried. But his first
shout of warning was cruelly cut off by the big raw-boned paw of Bamy Cain.
Mallow's gun swung to cover the others. One of his men cut the sound switch.

"Any more of you try
anything silly, and . .."

He did not need to finish.

"Why
did you have to come back into our lives again like
a
bad smell," said Ramsy. His tan showed patchy over bloodless
cheeks. "We were doing fine until you turned up. It's a good life
here."

Mallow
had thinned dining the year Howland hadn't seen him. The man's face and eyes
and posture, the flush along his cheeks, the febrile bitterness in his eyes,
gave the impression of a man consumed by
a
wasting disease, by a fever or a cancer, eating away at him, giving him
a
'spurious vitality that would burn fiercely until all his resources had
been spent. After that—there would be no more Terence Mallow. But long before
that happened, Peter Howland would have been killed.

Around
them all now the pulse of life of the scientific laboratories and installations
quickened. Mallow and his men wanted one thing—the balance of the cash taken
from
Poseidon.
There was no great trouble finding it. The wall safe in Randolph's study
presented laughable problems to Briggs and Cain. And so men moved through the
corridors and rooms, herding other men with guns, all being sorted out into
sheep and goats.

"All
right, Howland. You and Haffner come along with us. Uncle—you will kindly lead
the way." Mallow hadn't bothered to draw his own gun. He was leaving the
crudities to his men. "Into your own rooms, please, uncle. I'm sure the
money is there."

They went.

They had no choice.

That
sick feeling of despair gnawed at Howland. He heard the shrill descending whine
of Dudley Harcourt's spaceship outside and felt the trembling vibration
through the floor as she touched down. As soon as those academic men set foot
in this place tough gangsters would overwhelm them—and there would be just a
few more frightened and bewildered prisoners for Mallow's men to keep under observation.

Strangely, the familiar office with its
filing cabinets and wall charts, its big desk and pillow-stuffed chair for Randolph,
appeared to Howland alien, unknown, unfriendly. Men crowded it burstingly.
Mallow saw the safe. A pleased smile creased his worn features.

"Very convenient,
uncle.
Open
it
up—fasti"

There
was nothing else Randolph could do. He bent only slightly before the
combination lock, began to turn the dials. He looked pathetic there, bent and
old and fragile. Then he looked up, one hand resting on the final lever.
"What kept you so long, Terence? Why didn't you return for the money
sooner?"

"Had to make plans. And you'd spent all
you were going to spend long before I could stop you. So it didn't make any
difference to the amount after that."

The
other men in the room crowded. Howland felt Brigg's gun pressing harder into
his spine. He moved uneasily away, and Briggs took no notice; kept his eyes on
the safe. Randolph tumbled the last lever and the safe swung open.

At
that precise instant, with the door swinging wide and the ranked boxes within
just coming into view, the first gunshots slapped flatly through the tense
atmosphere.

"Who
the hell's that!" Mallow still did not draw his own weapon; but he nodded
savagely at Cain. "Bamy! Go and find out. Move!"

Bamy Cain rumbled through the open doorway
like a tank rolling into action. More gunshots sounded. Then Cain was back with
the men in the room still in their same frozen positions. "It's the
cops—dozens of 'em—all over!"

Mallow
swore luridly. He swung on Randolph and his language brought a flush along the
cheekbones of that tough little professor. Randolph stood up to his full
height. He cocked his head back. He bulged those frogVeyes of his and glared at
his nephew.

"The
kindest thing I can say Terence is—go! Run—try to get away. And from now on I
shall not own you a relative. But I won't try to stop you or hand you over to
the police—"

Howland
sensed rather than deduced what Mallow's next move would be. Briggs' gun
pressed hard against his spine. Howland moved smoothly sidways, pivoting,
brought the edge of his hand around straight and bonily across Briggs windpipe.
Duffy tried to scream and couldn't force air past his paralyzed windpipe. Then
Howland kicked him in the stomach and took his gun away. Ramsy and Larssen were
tangling with their guards and other of Mallow's men were running in a
scrambling welter of arms and legs out the door, dashing up the corridor. If
they could reach their ship they could escape—Randolph's ship, rather. Howland,
not yet panting, let them go, looking first at Randolph. The little professor
was on one knee, gripping his left wrist with his right hand.

Mallow
was bringing his gun down onto that unprotected head.

Howland did what he had to do. But his aim
was wild; the shot crashed past Mallow's head, pinged into the safe and fetched
up safely in a thousand note. Mallow's face contorted. He didn't go through
with his blow, spun on his heel, the sound surprisingly loud between gunshots,
crashed out through the window, taking the glass and frame and all.

Out
there the meticulously kept lawns and flowers of this Earthly Eden on Fochalin
Nine offered some sanctuary to a desperate man until he could make his way
through to the main airlocks and his own spaceship.

Before
Howland could follow, men in the drab blue police uniform burst into the room.
At their head Tim Warner saw Howland, smiled with a long reflective smile—and
started to speak.

"All right, Howland.
That's far enough—"

Perhaps,
if Warner hadn't spoken, Howland would have obeyed the unspoken command. As it
was all his hatred for what Warner represented burst in him with the violence
of a grade-one Pochalin Nine thunderstorm.

He
went through the window trailing the remnants of frame and glass that Mallow
had left.

He'd
been hungry when he'd landed with Ramsy after the planting flight. But all his
nervous energy now was concentrated on finding Mallow; there was time or
thought for nothing else. Professor Randolph's nephew raced across the crisp
lawns beneath the low arching domen a hundred feet away.

Howland
didn't try a shot. He sprinted hard. Behind him he heard a vague and distant
bellow from the shattered window; something about getting out of the line of
fire. He ignored that, running on hard.

Scientific
living was supposed to atrophy the hunter's muscles, easy comforts destroy the
savage instincts of primeval ancestors. Howland felt bestial anger suffuse him
as he pounded heavily after Mallow. The man had caused trouble and anguish ever
since he had erupted into Howland's life; and there was Helen, too. Howland
felt no mercy as he closed with the fleeing man.

But Mallow, too, had cunning to match that
ferocity. His racing steps took him to a side door leading back into the
hangars. And here Howland caught him.

Mallow
was
running
so fast he skidded on the turn inside the
door as his staring eyes saw the police converging. He fled along the corridor,
followed by Howland, and both men catapulted into the hangar floor. In there a
hollow silence echoed their footfalls and rasped breathing.

Mallow, balked by the metallic side of a
flier, swung to face his pursuer, his gun coming up. Howland took off, hands
outspread like eagle's talons, collided with Mallow and knocked the gun away,
hearing Mallow's grunt, "I might have guessed it'd be you." Howland
then rocked back as a fist exploded along his jaw.

Another tearing blow hit him in the midriff.
He straightened up, dazed, with barely enough sense left to sway sideways and
dodge the next blow.

Then
he put a fist into Mallow's face. He felt his knuckles sting and wondered if
the blood was his or Mallow's. Something kicked
nim
hard
on the shin and he lashed out again, catching Mallow high on the forehead. Both
men were grunting like pigs now. He caught Mallow's arm in a grip learned years
ago, twisted, felt a bone snap, ignored the next savage blow from Mallow, hung
on and belted the man again and again with his free hand.

The screams from Mallow bounced from the
metal walls, giving
him
a sense of being in a nightmare echo chamber. His fist was rapidly
losing all feeling; but he kept on thrashing Mallow, who twisted and wriggled
and hung from his broken arm. Then, gradually, Mallow's struggles lessened.

Only
when Warner disengaged Howland's grip, ripping the rigid fingers away, and
pulling the scientist oil the exspace Navy man, was Howland aware that Mallow
was unconscious.

"Take Mallow away and fix him up,"
Warner directed curtly. "How do you feel, Howland?"
"Grand-"
_>

"Yeah,
that's to be expected. And I thought you scientific birds were all head-muscle
and dehydrated emotions. Come on. The doc can put a stitch or two in your hide
and some acraflavin here and there. Then we'll pour a double Scotch down
you."