Collected Short Fiction, page 437
Their questions came in battering volleys. It was easy enough to talk about America. The real danger was that he would display too much knowledge. To half the questions, he said he didn’t know. To many, he told the truth. The more these men were interested in what he said, the less attention they would pay to himself. He didn’t attempt to lie, except to make them believe that the Ring Cylinder was impregnably defended.
At last they were done.
“Splendid work!” thick-jowled Barlow applauded. “The Black Star will give you your due for this.”
Shane felt a tiny shudder of dread. He didn’t like Barlow’s small, piglike eyes. Several of his questions had appeared faintly suspicious. Did Barlow mean that he knew, that Shane had somehow already betrayed the impersonation? But the thick-set Outsider appeared suddenly friendly.
“Shall we go back to the Avenger, Clayton? I can see you’re all in and I think you’ll need a bit of life when we get to New Dover tomorrow—for her, eh?”
His elbow poked into Shane’s ribs.
“That’s right, Barlow.”
Shane followed gratefully into the rocket’s elevator. He was all in and he did want to be at his best tomorrow. His life and the fate of America might turn on what happened when he met Atlantis Lee. For all his apprehensions, he thought, the real Clayton himself couldn’t have been more anxious for that meeting.
Back aboard the Avenger, in his tiny metal-walled room, he took out the platinum case before he went to sleep and looked again at her picture. Her violet eyes smiled at him, grave and sweet. Only, he reminded himself, they were smiling for Clayton. The more she loved Clayton, the more likely she was to discover the masquerade and the more she would hate him when she did.
He shut the case, and went to sleep.
The lurch and thrust of acceleration woke him. He knew that the Avenger had already taken flight for New Dover. He rose and put on the brown uniform and an orderly brought him breakfast—a large bowl of a sweetish, yellow gruel.
The Outsiders must have few food animals, he knew, and probably only a limited variety of plants. Probably this mess was synthetic. It did have a faint sharp chemical taste. Such food was one more basis of the jealous envy of America, the paradise beyond the Barrier.
THE elevator took him up to the control room in the nose of the rocket. Captain Barlow was not in evidence. The brown-shirted pilot nodded cheerfully from the intricate banks of controls.
“Hello, Clay,” he called familiarly. “Want to spell me?”
Shane knew that he ought to reply with the pilot’s name.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m not quite up to it today.”
The pilot stared curiously. “Something must have hit you pretty hard, Clay,” he commented. “You aren’t acting much like Iron Clayton. First time I ever saw you turn down a spell at the rod.”
Shane imitated Clayton’s careless shrug.
“It was pretty tough.” He tried to change the subject. “When do we get to New Dover?”
“Five minutes late.” Evidently he was supposed to know the schedule. The pilot smiled challengingly at him. “Unless you want to take the rod and make it up. Guess you’re pretty anxious to see Atlantis.”
Shane nodded, assumed Clayton’s green-eyed grin.
“Lucky guy”—the pilot looked sober and lowered his voice—“if the Black Star lets you keep her!”
Shane didn’t dare ask what he meant. He was a little sorry he had ventured up here. He was supposed to know everything already. Any show of curiosity could give him away. He was glad when the pilot had to look back to his instruments and controls.
Shane looked out through the observation ports. The view was both magnificent and appalling. Forgetful of the danger, he caught his breath in audible wonderment.
The rocket was at least a hundred miles high. It was early morning and long, inky shadows made the convex mountainous landscape appear almost as rugged as Earth’s long-lost Moon, in pictures that Shane had seen. The lateral thrust of the rockets altered his sense of down, so that the stark cragged surface of the planet seemed crazily tilted.
“You’ve changed, Clay.” The pilot’s cheerful voice alarmed him. “Staring at the scenery like a yellow cub! Atlantis has got into your blood, all right.”
Shane shrugged and tried to grin Clayton’s reckless grin. He was more and more certain that he would sooner or later betray himself.
Presently the rugged desert of the ocean floor tipped beneath them and swung vertiginously back. Shane knew that this was mid-flight. The rocket was reversed for deceleration. He moved to another view-port, to watch for the first glimpse of New Dover.
“There she is!”
There was nothing that Shane could see, except new expanses of stark desolation, plain on plain of dried sea-mud, walled with range on cragged range of wild black-shadowed volcanic mountains. But the cheerful pilot nodded at the telescope beside him.
Through the lenses, Shane glimpsed the city. New Dover stood on the end of a high, rugged, dark plateau. The gray-white metal that walled it against the Outside’s grim hostility was probably some aluminum alloy. It was really more a flat disk than a dome. Several upright rockets stood on the level center of it. Grouped about it were a number of smaller domes. More rockets stood upon a long, dark rectangle.
BEYOND the city lay fields of dull yellow. The plateau was covered, square mile on square mile, with close-set blocks of yellow. For a moment Shane was completely puzzled. Then he remembered the gold-film storage cells of the Friendship. Here were the solar power accumulators, drinking up the Sun’s tremendous energy.
He was startled by the pilot’s cheery voice.
“Anybody would think you had never seen New Dover! Well, you’ll be seeing her in an hour. Say, do you think you’ll be at Din’s tonight?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly Shane gave up the telescope. He decided he had better get out of here before he gave himself away. “See you there. I’ve got another report to write.”
He returned to his tiny stateroom. Blue-jowled Captain Barlow came in a few moments later and began to ask more questions about America. The pig-eyed officer seemed eager and friendly—altogether too eager and friendly. Shane tried not to show his relief when the Avenger landed.
The ship descended upon the flattened top of the low metal dome. Her wheels dropped after the landing stanchions had absorbed the shock of descent and dock-hands in air-suits rolled her over a valve in the city’s roof. Her bottom valve was sealed against the opening, so that the ship’s elevator could drop through the roof to the top level of the city.
Shane stepped out of the little cage with Captain Barlow at his side. He mustn’t seem to be too interested or astonished, yet his life might depend on what he could quickly see and understand. Swiftly he looked about him.
The elevator had come down into a long space, like a covered wharf. Up and down it, other cages were rising and descending. There were piles of crates and bales and kegs and bright metal ingots. Sweaty men with silent electric trucks and cranes were moving cargo.
Outside, through broad doorways, he glimpsed one of the streets of New Dover. It was roofed, of course, and narrow, so that it was really more like a corridor. The pavement was moving steadily. Perhaps the street below, he thought, moved in the opposite direction.
The people he saw looked hardy and vigorous. They were rather scantily clad in variously colored, lustrous, metallic-looking material. The warm conditioned air didn’t call for much clothing and fabrics were probably rather scarce and expensive.
Shane was a little surprised at these evidences of vigor and industrial efficiency. New Dover didn’t look like a city about to perish for want of a few gallons of water. Perhaps Clayton had been lying.
“Here she is, Clayton!”
It was Barlow’s heavy voice. Once again Shane thought he seemed too friendly. His small, heavy-lidded eyes seemed almost suspiciously watchful. In a moment, however, Shane forgot all his apprehensions about Barlow—for he saw Atlantis Lee.
SHANE had been prepared for the ordeal of some ceremonial reception, fitted to the importance of the Secretary of the New Britain. He was expecting brass bands, or their Outside equivalent. But the girl came to him across the busy wharf, quite alone. He had a few seconds to study her, to try to guess how the real Glenn Clayton would greet her.
She was a little taller than he had expected. Her red hair had gleaming lights that the miniature had only suggested. She wore a sort of tunic of a dull, lustrous green. Her walk was deliberate, proud. She really had the manner of a ruler and she was truly beautiful.
Shane knew that he was staring, breathless. He knew the real Clayton wouldn’t be doing that. Clayton wouldn’t merely surrender to the beauty of Atlantis. He would grin his reckless grin and—
Suddenly Shane wasn’t sure exactly what Clayton would do. As the girl came up to him he was seized with panic. He realized that disaster was near, but he was paralyzed. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.
“Hello, Glenn.”
The girl stopped in front of him. Her violet eyes smiled gravely. She was lovelier than the picture had hinted. The sheer beauty of her set a pleasant ache throbbing in his heart. Then he was shaken with a black and bitter jealousy for Clayton.
She was speaking again. He could hardly hear the words. He knew that her voice was softly melodious, somehow quite free of the twangy harshness that seemed to characterize the English of New Britain.
“I’m glad that you came safely home,” she said. “Do you have an answer from the Americans, Glenn?” Anxiety put tenseness in her voice and there was a cool note of scorn. “Or did the Black Star refuse to let you deliver our message of peace to America?”
Shane saw the hurt in her violet eyes. Desperately he broke the panic that chained him. He caught his breath and tried once more to imagine that he was the real Glenn Clayton. He tried to grin Clayton’s reckless, green-eyed grin.
“You’re so beautiful that for a moment I couldn’t think.”
Captain Barlow was standing near. His small, beady eyes were quickly watchful. Shane thought the heavy man had stiffened imperceptibly at the girl’s mention of the Black Star. He was almost sure that Barlow had begun to suspect, but he tried to forget the Black Star.
He did the thing he was certain that the real Glenn Clayton should have done. He swept the girl into his hard arms. His eager face brushed through her fragrant hair. He kissed her soft, startled lips thirstily.
The next instant Shane knew that he had made a mistake.
CHAPTER XIII
The Dream of Eden
THE anti-aircraft batteries about the Ring Cylinder and the Ring Guard Headquarters patterned the sky with bursts of white, but the escaping Friendship was far too swift for their range-finders. The howl of rockets faded as she came up through the stratosphere.
Della Rand’s dark eyes looked into Clayton’s reckless grin.
“There’ll be no dive-bombing the Ring Cylinder!” Her voice was low and shaken. “I thought of that before I helped you get away. I knew that all the bombs had been unloaded from the Friendship. That was a safety precaution before the test flights began.”
“Thanks, anyhow, beautiful.”
Glenn Clayton locked the controls. He turned to Della Rand, his green eyes bright with elation. He took her in his hard arms and kissed her. Despite the monstrous alarm now awake in her, she liked the ruthless pressure of his lips.
“That doesn’t matter,” he told her. “In three hours we’ll be back to Point Fourteen. They’ll load the bomb-racks for us there and we can leave word with the patrol to look for Lieutenant Shane.”
Della Rand thrust her lithe body out of his arms.
“Do you think I’ll let you do that?” Her face had turned a little pale, but her dark eyes flashed. “Do you think I’ll let you murder America?”
Clayton grinned. “What did you think you were doing, beautiful, when you set me free?”
“I didn’t have time to think. I only knew I couldn’t kill you.” She stared at his brown face, bit her quivering lip. “Perhaps we could hide the ship somewhere. You can’t go on with this insane attack against the Ring.”
His face set grimly.
“The Black Star doesn’t owe America anything. The breaking of the Barrier will give us the water we need. That has been planned since the time when America was only an unpleasant legend. All our cities are built where they won’t be flooded when your precious bit of ocean pours down.”
Delia Rand tried not to shudder.
“You owe something to one American,” she reminded him in a low, urgent voice. “You owe your life to me.”
He gave her his green-eyed grin.
“Don’t you worry, beautiful,” he said. “I’m going to pay that debt, personally, to you.” His hard fingers caught her arm, drew her almost roughly to him. “This way.”
She yielded to his kiss, found it queerly sweet, but already she was planning what she must do. It had been impossible for her to murder Clayton. It was equally impossible for her to let Clayton murder America.
“Thank you, darling,” he whispered. “I’ll never let you be sorry.”
But she could see that his greenish eyes remained alertly watchful. Perhaps she had the shadow of a chance, yet she knew it would not be easy.
WHEN the wail of the rockets grew silent she realized they were above the restraining air. The sky was purple-black above and the gray misty convexity of America rotated beneath them. As Clayton took the controls again she moved away from him.
“Wait,” he said. “Better stay where I can watch you.”
The gun he had found in the ambulance was thrust in his belt. It made her a little ill to realize that he would use it unhesitantly against her. She watched his brown, busy hands at the controls. He kept talking easily to her, as if they were at peace. But she knew that it was impossible to do anything now. She could only wait and hope for the chance to come.
The dim line of the Atlantic coast drifted back beneath them and presently Della Rand knew that the invisible wall of the Ring was near. Testing the polarizer, Clayton watched her with a new alertness. The chance didn’t come.
She didn’t know just when they crossed the Ring, but she saw that the misty Atlantic was sliding away behind them, cut off as if by a long, curved blade. Beneath was the barren mountain desert, where once the sea had flowed Outside.
Clayton seemed to relax. He grinned at her and began testing a new piece of equipment.
“We’re through the Barrier. In half an hour we can signal Point Fourteen and tell them to send patrols to look for Lieutenant Shane.”
Half an hour—still there was a chance.
“Kiss me, darling,” Clayton said. “You’ll never be sorry.”
All her surgeon’s strength and quickness flowed into the fingers that snatched the heavy automatic out of Clayton’s belt. She didn’t wait to threaten him, because no threat would have meant anything to Clayton. He would have used any delay to take the weapon back.
She fired instantly, yet her surgeon’s skill was in control. She didn’t want to kill him. No matter what he was, she would never want to do that. She tried to do nothing that her skill could not repair.
The gun made a frightful sound. It leaped in her hand and hot smoke stung her face. Clayton’s hard body jerked to the bullet’s impact. She felt a stab of pain, as if it had been her own flesh, but she clung to her purpose. She stepped away from Clayton before he could gather any strength. She sent a second bullet into the radio, so that it could never send out the message that would betray Barry Shane.
“You win, beautiful.”
Clayton’s voice seemed to hold no anger, only admiration. The bullet had torn his side horribly. It must have gone deeper than she meant. Already blood was flowing, but Clayton’s pale, tense face contrived to grin.
“Let me set her down,” he whispered. “I can hold out for that.”
He clung for a moment to the console, then lowered himself carefully into the big metal seat. Still deft, his fingers touched the controls. The ship spun and Della felt the crushing pressure of deceleration.
Already she was on her knees beside him, trying to stop the blood. That ruthless pressure made it difficult and multiplied the strain on his heart, but Clayton clung grimly to his task and brought the rocket down.
IT crashed with bruising, dazing force against the flank of a dark volcanic summit that once the sea had flooded. But the tough hull took the shock. There was no shriek of escaping air.
“Well, darling,” Clayton breathed. “Here we are.”
Consciousness flowed out with his leaking blood, but Della got him out of the chair. With a strength she had never known she possessed, she carried him back to the bunk. She found an emergency surgical kit and dressed the wound, after cauterizing it.
Clayton would live. In two weeks, she thought, he would be able to walk.
She wasn’t sure that the radio had been hopelessly destroyed. She made sure. Then, one by one, she smashed the six ion-blast rocket tubes in their ports and the six spares she found in the storeroom aft.
That made the Friendship quite helpless. The caterpillar tracks, with which the disguised machine had been able to move over the ground like a crawling boulder, had been hopelessly smashed when Barry Shane landed it at Headquarters. They had been removed for repair and had not been replaced. Nor could either of them leave the machine. The air-suit in which Barry Shane had ventured Outside was the only escape equipment that had been aboard.
The charge in the gold-film cells, Della knew, would last indefinitely. The banks of cells would keep the air-machine in operation, condensing exhaled moisture and liberating oxygen from it. There were sufficient supplies of food to last for several months. In addition, the air-machine made starch and glucose.
Della Rand came back to Clayton. All the reckless hardness had gone from his face. His monstrous purpose, to shatter the Ring and destroy America, seemed completely incredible now. Smiling a little, she softly smoothed his forehead.
