The Project Gutenberg EBook of Alcatraz of the Starways, by Albert dePina and Henry Hasse This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Alcatraz of the Starways Author: Albert dePina Henry Hasse Release Date: June 12, 2020 [EBook #62377] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALCATRAZ OF THE STARWAYS *** Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ALCATRAZ OF THE STARWAYS By ALBERT dePINA and HENRY HASSE Venus was a world enslaved. And then, like an avenging angel, fanning the flames of raging revolt, came a warrior-princess in whose mind lay dread knowledge—the knowledge of a weapon so terrible it had been used but once in the history of the universe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "Purple!" Mark Denning almost sobbed. "A purple Josmian!" Forgetting the sweat in his eyes and the insufferable heat about him, his clutching hand held up the mud-dripping globe the size of a baseball, iridescent in the Venusian night. The phosphorescent glow that bathed the endless swamp in ghastly green, struck myriad shimmering rainbows from the dark sphere. "Two more of those and you're free, lower species!" It was an ironic voice, with the resonant sweetness of a cello in its depths, that issued from the haze nearby. Frantically Mark reached down into the tepid mud, where he had felt the swaying stems of Josmian lilies whip about his knees. Another globe met his hand. He tugged and twisted until it tore from the stem, but when he raised it to the surface, it was white. Immediately it began to shrink. It would continue until it became the size of a small marble, when it would either rot, as the majority did, or begin to crystallize into a priceless Venusian pearl. But that happened only with one in ten thousand. It was different with the purple ones, they never failed to crystallize into a violet globe of unearthly beauty and incalculable value. Less than a hundred of the purple had ever been found. They were so rare that any prisoner who harvested three, was granted freedom. "Pretty!" the cello voice taunted, behind Mark. "In a few hours it will be rotting and stinking to high heaven!" "Cut it, Aladdo!" Mark growled. He tossed the white Josmian into the basket he pushed before him across the mud; the purple one he placed carefully in his trouser pocket. He pushed on, searching the pungent-smelling mud that came up to his thighs. Suddenly the warm ooze rose to his waist and crept inexorably higher. For an instant, Mark clawed at the mud. It was surging up to his armpits now, as he floundered in the tenacious sink hole. He shook his head to get the sweat out of his eyes and the numbness from his brain. He stopped thrashing about, for he knew that was futile. He threw back his head and gave a shout in which was more than a note of sheer terror. Mark clawed at the mud surging up to his armpits. At least a dozen men were moving near him, waist deep in the Venusian mud. At his cry, they stopped and stared at him dully, fatalistically. They could easily have formed a chain and pulled him out, but none moved. They'd seen too many repetitions of this tragedy to care anymore. It happened every day; a new man, a little careless, caught in one of the deadly sink holes ... it happened even to the veterans of this Venusian prison camp, sometimes deliberately, as they became weary of a hopeless existence. The mud was almost to Mark's chin now; only his forearms and his blond head were visible. Hatred came into his eyes as he glared at the men about him, most of them Earthmen like himself, who would not help him. Again he struggled, tried to hoist himself upward. "Don't struggle, you fool!" came the resonant voice from behind him. "Be still; every movement helps to sink you!" Then, in an undertone, "No human was ever able to think clearly, anyway." Mark smiled despite his predicament, then he urged: "Hurry Aladdo—hurry!" Over the expanse of hellish, green-lit muck, a tiny figure inched toward Mark. Scarcely five feet in height, Aladdo's arms and legs were now outspread, to distribute his weight over as much area as possible. The rescuing figure was like an imp from hades, clad as it was in a tight-fitting garment of metallic blue, which even the clinging mud failed to dull; while membraneous wings of a lighter hue began at its wrists, joined to the entire under-arm and the sides of its body all the way to its feet, much as the wings of a bat. Swiftly it crawled and wriggled toward the Earthman, and without a word grasped him with both tiny hands by the arms. It braced itself on its wings, and heaved. A few inches of Mark Denning emerged from the mud with a sucking sound. Again Aladdo made a prodigious effort, and again the Earthman came up from the mud a few more inches. The winged figure held him there, while it gasped for breath. "Now, spread your arms on the mud and stiffen your neck, sub-species!" The winged one laughed. Swiftly it cupped its seemingly fragile hands under Mark's chin, and slowly but surely began to pull him back and out. Most of an hour went by before the Earthman's superb torso had emerged and was able to help the rescuer. At last he was out of the sink hole, panting, almost exhausted and half nude. He still found strength to feel at his trouser pocket, and was gratified to find his purple Josmian still there. It was now about half its original size, and soon would cease its shrinkage and begin to crystallize. Mark gazed into the oval face, panting next to his. The heavily fringed eyes were closed as it breathed in labored gasps, and the slender, fragile form shook now and then with nervous spasms. Mark never ceased to wonder at the beauty of the Venusians, nor at their absolute and maddening conviction that theirs was the only true intelligence in the Universe. Now to these qualities Mark added that of indomitable courage, as he gazed at Aladdo and marvelled. "Well, Aladdo, thanks seems sort of a stupid word in a case like this; I owe you my life. I don't know how I'll ever repay the debt...." Mark's eyes roved over the weird scene, taking in the soulless, hopeless hulks that had once been men. And it suddenly occurred to him that he'd had enough of this hellish corner of Venus; he had been here two months and already he was unable to think clearly, he was becoming identified with the living death of the Venusian Prison Swamp. His mission apparently had failed. What he had come to learn, remained a secret, and he was slowly becoming like these shells of men who prowled the ocean of mud, eventually to disappear beneath it. "No need to thank me, middle order, I would have missed our discussions had you gone." The Venusian grinned impishly. "What? I've been promoted! You must be ill, to call me anything above a 'lower order' or a 'sub-species'!" Mark smiled too, but seriously wondered what crime had condemned Aladdo to a prison reserved only for the most hardened and hopeless criminals, or for political prisoners whose existence was a threat to the Tri-Planetary League. "At times, you're almost intelligent," the Venusian replied placidly. "Any one of these other men would have struggled had they been in your place, and I would have been helpless." "Why didn't you use your brain," Mark couldn't resist prodding the other, "and by flying above me, get to me quicker, instead of crawling all that distance?" The winged figure laughed mirthlessly, and for an answer held up its arms. The azure membranes that were its wings, hung in limp folds. "Useless, you see," he said quietly. "The tendons have been cut. Otherwise I could fly up and out of this swamp, despite its five hundred mile width." Mark could find no words to say. Since being assigned at his own request to this last grim haven of the damned, by the Tri-Planetary Prison Bureau, on a special mission, there had been moments when the horror of it all had made him doubt the wisdom of maintaining such a ghastly place. He knew, of course, the tremendous deterrent influence its existence exerted, besides the important revenue derived from Venusian pearls; still it all seemed too inhuman. "You don't seem criminal, Earthman!" the cello-like voice introduced on Mark's thoughts. "I fail to catch the typical vibrations of the killers and ravagers. Your crime ... was it political?" "Why, yes!" Mark assented hurriedly. It wouldn't do for this Venusian to suspect he was an operative. "To put it briefly, I am classified as too individualistic for the new order of 'controlled endeavor'. Also typed as irreconcilable—and you know what that means!" "Perfectly!" The enigmatic smile hovering on the Venusian's lips faded slowly. "I, too, am a 'political'. My father was Bedrim, the Liberator. All we of Venus asked was real independence instead of the mock freedom your Earth grants us; in reality we are a vassal state with no voice but Earth's." "Bedrim!" Mark exclaimed, aghast. For more than a decade that name had made history, engulfing three planets in a suicidal struggle that had ended in a stalemate. Bedrim was dead now, Mark knew; but in Venus and even on Mars, the name was a glorious legend. It was only with the greatest effort and vigilance that Earth was able to enforce the peace. "So this is what became of you!" Mark said slowly, softly. "The three worlds do not know, they still wonder—" Then he caught himself and bit his lip. "Yes," Aladdo murmured bitterly. "The worlds do not know. I was to be given amnesty, I was so young; but your inner Council decided that as long as I lived I would be a rallying point for irreconcilables of Venus, and so I was hunted from planet to planet until ... well, here I am on my own world, but as far away from my people as if I were on Betelgeuse. Here I do not live." "But surely there must be some way of convincing the Council that you're harmless! And if that fails, well ... of getting you out of here!" "Out of Paradim?" Aladdo's smile had all the despairing bitterness of a soul damned for all eternity; all the tears and the anguish and the wracking sorrow of the condemned since the world began seemed to be frozen for an instant in that smile. "Look about you, Earthman!" It was true. Mark had to acknowledge the psychological genius who had devised the Venusian Prison System. For five hundred miles the swamp Paradim extended in either direction, impassable, pitted with sink holes into which a man would disappear without trace. And beyond were the impenetrable jungles, alive with lurking carnivora, lurking monsters of the night, red in tooth and claw. Only on the opposite hemisphere were the two larger and hospital continents of Venus. Here, on this tiny continent, the prison ship came once a month, to hover over the tiny islet in the middle of the swamp, the only spot of firm ground for untold miles. Here it dropped supplies and food, and occasionally picked up the little heaps of fabulous Venusian pearls. There were no guards and none were needed, for at night when the awful humidity increased, the men worked or died. With night came the dreaded fog, lurid in the ghostly illumination of the igniis fatui, the phosphorescent radiance of this vast graveyard. And the idle died. Decomposition of the blood set in; essential salts within their bodies were dissolved, cellular activity ceased, and their bodies bloated. Not many, however, were idle. Escape? For years it had been thought a virtual impossibility. The very thought would have brought smiles to the grim faces of that august body, the Tri-Planetary Bureau of Prisons. And yet—a notorious killer who had been sent to this swamp only a year ago, had recently been found dead—out in space! A patrol ship had found the body floating a few thousand miles off Callisto, an atom-blast hole drilled neatly through the forehead. There was not the slightest doubt that this was the same man. How had this criminal been able to escape the swamp and travel to Callisto, millions of miles away? It was a mystery and above all, a challenge. Apparently the Venus Prison had ceased to be impregnable. And that was why Mark Denning, the Prison Bureau's leading investigator, was here. "Guard your pearl, middle species," Aladdo's voice was ironic once more. "Escape, and with it you may buy a pardon!" Without a backward glance, the Venusian moved on with nightmare slowness through the swirling mists, pushing his basket into which the Josmian globes were loaded. Escape, Mark thought, following the Venusian. He did not need to escape, he could signal the prison ship to pick him up the next time it arrived. He wondered if he should. He had been here two months, and they were an eternity that dwarfed any concept of hell. But he hadn't any clue to the mystery of the escaping convicts, and he could hardly return with a confession of failure. He looked ahead through the mists, at the slender body of Aladdo in its tight-fitting sheath of metallic blue. "I would miss Aladdo," Mark whispered to himself; "and if he can stand it here, I should be able to!" "What are you mumbling about to yourself?" Aladdo's mocking voice came back to him. "That lowers you from the middle species to the sub species again." He held up a Josmian globe against the greenish swamp glow. "White," he said contemptuously and threw it into the basket. Pushing through the muck with his tremendous strength, Mark cut the distance that separated them. "You may have my purple one, Aladdo. I will not need it, and perhaps you ... with it you might...." "If I were to gather a hundred purple ones, I could not buy my release." The Venusian was staring at Mark peculiarly, as if wondering why he should have made that offer. "Do you suppose, Earthman, any of the other men saw you find it? They would kill you for it—cheerfully." "No, I think not; no one saw me bring it up but you." "Then guard it." Aladdo eyed Mark's powerful frame critically. "Guard it with your life, for you may have to fight for it soon." "Telepathy! You've caught someone's thought vibrations?" Mark asked in a whisper. He well knew that telepathy, although not commonly used, was an established fact among the Venusians. But Aladdo's long lashes rested against pallid cheeks, veiling eyes that were abrim with something Mark could not understand. "No," the winged one said at last, "it wasn't a thought vibration—not that clear—perhaps a vibration of evil! Be alert, Earthman. I can say no more." "All right, thanks, Aladdo." But inwardly Mark cursed the inherent Venusian mania for ultra-reserve, for making a mystery of even the most commonplace affairs. "Let's head for the island, it's almost dawn." Above, the cloud-cap was prismatic with color as the sun tried feebly to penetrate the grayness and then gave up the attempt, as if it had tried many times before and failed. Slowly the vast swamp's contours came into view, with their small island a faint green line against the horizon's rim. And as the grayish dawn light increased, suffusing the grim morass, Mark and Aladdo made their slow way toward it. II "Up you go!" Mark's long muscles corded as he heaved and Aladdo's body left the mud with a sucking sound, to sprawl on the solid ground of the island. Presently the Earthman joined him, and for a few seconds they rested silently. All around them the vegetation surged, lush and matted, inextricably tangled with parasitic vines. Whereas the expanse of swamp was bare of the myriad growths of Venus, for some unknown chemical reason, the island itself was riotous with them. It was as if every inch of terra firma were precious. The humid air was hot and stagnant, heavy with the overpowering fragrance of flowers. Even after two months of conditioning, Mark had difficulty in breathing, as the odors of this alien world increased as the temperature rose. "Arrgh, what a world!" Mark said disgustedly, as he rose to his feet. "I'm going to bathe, before the gang arrives. You'd better come too." Together they went up the vine-entangled path toward the barracks, and, rounding a corner of the building, followed another path to where a small spring gushed from an elevation; it fell in a sparkling shower and then meandered a few feet to lose itself in the swamp. Aladdo, as usual, merely let the water flow over the metallic suit that sheathed the slender body. By the time they had finished bathing, the rest of the convicts began to emerge from radiating paths, to dump their swamp pearls onto the growing heap by the side of their barracks. Some of the men threw themselves on the ground, exhausted in minds and bodies, and were almost instantly asleep. A few sat against the barracks wall and chewed the deadly tsith stems, their eyes vacant, their faces gray. Tsith was awful stuff, even if it did banish pain. Mark knew that these men wouldn't last long, but he wondered if perhaps they weren't the wiser ones after all! Returning from his bath to the barracks, Mark found that Aladdo had disappeared. He entered, and donned a thin rubberoid garment from among his meager store of personal belongings. It resembled one of the ancient woolen suits that Earthmen had used against the cold many centuries before; but there was a great difference. Mark's garment was impervious to cold or heat, highly flexible, yet the interlining of allurium mesh could intercept anything short of a ray blast. When Mark emerged, he found Aladdo talking in very low tones, with a tall, Martian-Venusian half-breed. This man was fantastic. He had the slenderness of the Venusians, and the finely chiseled features, but his eyes were Martian— deep purple and immense, far too large for the face. The breadth of shoulder and barrel chest was Martian too, ludicrous in comparison with the wasp waist and slender thighs. Mark had seen this half-breed about the swamp before, and wondered who he was. Now Aladdo, glancing up, called to him. Mark walked over to them. "This is Luhor, Earthman," the Venusian crossed both hands at the wrists in the immemorial Venusian gesture indicating that a friend was being introduced. "Luhor, the Earthman's name is Mark. He is the one I told you about. Note the muscular power of the body, the intelligence of the face, no less than middle-order. I think you shall find him most useful." Mark felt as if he were on the auction block, as Aladdo calmly pointed out his physical attributes. He was mystified. At the back of his mind a vague memory strove to emerge; it was barely a sense of having seen this man Luhor before, moving among the torpid convicts and whispering to them briefly. Perhaps it had been an allusion of the swamp's night glow, and yet, the feeling persisted. Mark extended his hand to the Martian-Venusian, who eyed him silently, expressionless, without grasping the proffered hand. Around them, the atmosphere was electric. At last Luhor spoke. "Only fifteen can go. They have been picked out!" His was a rumbling voice, emotionless—cold. "Eliminate one then," Aladdo said imperiously. "How? They'll fight like Ocelandians; they already know they've been picked, O Aladdian!" Then Mark Denning understood. Escape was being planned. Aladdo was one of those to go, and was trying to induce Luhor to include him! Mark's heart was pounding, he knew that it was now or never; he must be among those who escaped. He would never again be so close to the solution of the mysteries he had been sent here to solve. "I'm new here," Mark spoke hurriedly. "Look at my arms, my chest. I have tremendous strength and endurance. My vitality has not been sapped by the swamp as yet. Take me also, Luhor, I'll repay you beyond anything you can dream of!" The half-breed's mouth twisted slowly into a cold sneer as he gazed at the Earthman, then he shrugged his shoulders. It might have meant anything, but Mark thought it meant denial. In silence Luhor bowed to Aladdo and strode off toward a group of several men. It was odd, Mark thought—a half-breed convict showing such a mark of respect to another convict. But perhaps it was because Luhor was half Venusian, and Bedrim had been Aladdo's father. Mark turned questioningly to Aladdo. He was amazed to see sudden alarm leap into the Venusian's eyes, together with a warning cry. Mark stepped lithely aside, but not in time to avoid a terrific blow between his shoulder-blades that left a burning point of fire in his flesh. He half fell to his knees, but whirled around to confront a bestial face, maddened now by blood-lust. In the attacker's hand was the haft and a piece of broken blade from what had evidently been a smuggled knife. It was useless now, shattered against the allurium mesh interlining of Mark's suit. With a cry of baffled rage the attacking Earthman hurled the broken weapon into Mark's face, and launched himself close behind it. Mark rolled slightly aside, then gained his feet and whirled to face his attacker. Mark was icy calm now. He awaited the convict's next rush, then sent a straight left unerringly to the man's head, driving him off-balance. Mark kept facing him, balanced lightly on his toes as the man came boring back in tenaciously. Mark's right arm was a peg upon which he hung the convict's blow, while he used the boxer's left, long and weaving, throwing it swiftly three times like a cat sparring with a mouse. The killer rushed, aggressive and eager. Mark let his heels touch the ground this time, refused to give way. He took a murderous hook to the stomach without flinching, countered with a quick left to the face and then a vicious right-cross. The convict's face seemed to lose contour, its features blurred as the face went gory; his feet crossed and his knees went suddenly rubbery, he fell with a crash and didn't get up. Mark towered above him, breathing heavily, only now aware of the little group of interested men who had watched. "You fight like a Venusian Ocelandian—as ruthless, and as methodical." It was Luhor who stepped forward and spoke; he was grinning twistedly as he surveyed Mark's handiwork. "Now I wonder why he wanted to eliminate me?" Mark gestured puzzledly. For an answer Aladdo, standing close by him, tapped the spot where in a hidden, inner pocket reposed the purple pearl. The gesture went unnoticed by Luhor, but Mark suddenly understood. "What do you care?" Luhor waved a hand as if dismissing the fallen foe. "He was one of the chosen. You may take his place, Earthman, since you have so neatly disabled him." His large weird eyes took in Mark's physique with a new interest. To Aladdo he said, "You have your wish." Again there was that odd note of deference in his voice. He bowed slightly and turned away again to the gathered little group of men. "When do we start?" Mark whispered eagerly to Aladdo. But the Venusian's eyes were preternaturally bright. A frail hand was held up for silence. Mark stood tense, listening. The brightness of Aladdo's eyes seemed to increase. And then Mark heard it. They all heard it. It was unbelievable. The low, powerful hum of a repulsion beam rent the stillness. It was faint and far away at first, but became steadily louder. This, Mark knew, was not the hornet's hum of the tiny craft the Prison Bureau sent with supplies; this was the unmistakable vibration of a Spacer hovering above them! Soon the immense bulk of the spaceship dropped slowly from the cloud banks above, like a silvery ghost descending. It hovered fifty feet above the islet, the powerful repulsion beam humming its deafening drone. An under-hull lock opened. A long flexible ladder rushed uncoiling through the murky atmosphere until it struck the ground a dozen paces from the barracks. "Back!" Luhor's voice crackled like an icy javelin as an avalanche of humanity scrambled toward the ladder, clawing, tearing and screaming. In his hand he held an atom-blast capable of annihilating that entire snarling group. They saw it and halted uncertainly. Luhor strode calmly toward the ladder and again shouted, "Back, you vermin!" He brought the weapon up as if to fire, and the tattered dregs who had been human beings still prized life enough to retreat sullenly. In a cold voice Luhor called names from a list in his hand. His huge purple orbs inspected each man to step forward, then he waved them toward the ladder. Aladdo was first, and Mark's heart leaped as the Venusian scrambled up the weaving ladder, grasping the metal rungs with fragile hands. One by one, fifteen convicts were called. Mark was among the last, and he heard Luhor ordering the remaining convicts into the swamp. Two disobeyed and leaped forward desperately. Luhor's atom-blast spat, one man dropped in his tracks and the other went scrambling back. Cries, imprecations, curses and pleadings dwindled as the men retreated to the mud. It was then that Luhor himself began to ascend the rungs, as the ladder was slowly pulled up. A rush of maddened convicts clawed at empty air as the stairway to freedom rose above their heads. Luhor laughed mockingly down at them. Mark, just above, suddenly hated Luhor for that. Inside the Spacer, with the air-lock closed, Luhor turned to the waiting men. His rumbling voice rose commandingly. "Anyone with weapons, whatever they are, throw them on the floor before you; if you refuse, or we have to search you and find them, you'll be dropped through the air-lock into the swamp. Choose!" The absolute cold finality of his tone left no doubt. A veritable arsenal of sharpened rocks, crude metal knives, and bent wires coated with deadly poison from Venusian plants, showered down. "All through?" The half-breed's purple eyes ranged down the line of men, as if he could see into their minds. There was a moment of silence, then one of the men hesitantly dropped an outmoded heat-gun, old-fashioned but deadly. Luhor's eyebrows went up, and he smiled thinly. "All right," he told a member of the crew, "gather up this junk and toss it out. You new men follow me. First you'll sluice off the mud and put on some decent clothes. Afterwards you'll see the Commander; and," he added, "the Commander will see you!" A fleeting smile hovered on his lips as if he had a little joke all his own. Mark was amazed at the spaciousness of the ship, and at the luxury of its appointments. It was apparent at once that this was no ordinary Spacer, for it was a fighting craft as well—a long, slim torpedo of death modern beyond anything he'd ever seen. He only obtained a glimpse of a few of the craft's weapons, but they looked formidable enough to tackle anything the Tri-Planetary ships could muster. He tried not to appear too curious, however; he knew that just now his best bet was to look dazed and docile. He glanced around for Aladdo, but the little Venusian had disappeared. Mark wasn't too surprised. He was satisfied to know that Aladdo was on the ship, and that eventually he would appear. The men scrubbed themselves with soap under needles of warm water, and achieved cleanliness for the first time in many months. Dressed in clean trousers and tunics, they were ready at last to go before the Commander. The men moved restlessly and whispered among themselves. None knew where they were going, or why. They only knew that a miracle had happened and they had been delivered from the great swamp. It didn't occur to any of them as yet that there could be a situation even remotely as bad as their living death in the swamp. One by one, they were called, as they waited in the ship's comfortable leisure-room. At its far end was an automatic beryllium door, and as each man's name was called through an amplifier, the door would open to permit a man to go through. Already nine men had passed through, and none had emerged. Mark could hardly restrain his impatience. Behind that door was the solution of a great mystery—a mystery which had grown in importance beyond anything the Prison Bureau officials had dreamed of, Mark realized, considering the perilous super-efficiency of this spaceship, now speeding away from Venus! Mark's name was called last, and he tried to achieve a careless nonchalance as he walked toward the door that opened silently for him. He would not have been too surprised to find that Aladdo was the Commander of this ship; that thought had occurred to him. As he entered the huge compartment, however, he had only a confused impression of brilliant lighting and indiscriminate luxury. Magnificent, ceiling-high tapestries covered the metal walls; beneath his feet, the resilient pile of an imperial Martian rug was a splash of varicolored splendour. Ornaments from three planets were everywhere, some of them museum pieces, like the desk of extinct Martian Majagua wood, inlaid with miniature mosaics of semi-precious stones. "Loot from the spacelanes!" Mark exclaimed inwardly. And then he was beyond all amazement as his gaze went across the bright room, and he saw the two people present. One was Luhor, dressed resplendently now, the shadow of a smile upturning the corners of his mouth. He was standing. Seated at a desk beside him was a girl. She was clad in a close-fitting uniform of a white, gleaming material like watered silk. Mark slowly let out his breath, and then he crossed the room. He wondered if she were really that beautiful, or if it was just the garish lights and surroundings. She spoke first. "If you must be amazed, please do it quickly. I am weary of these interviews." Mark looked at her eyes that were blue but unsmiling, and lips that smiled thinly but didn't mean it. Her slightly turned- up nose would have been amusing ordinarily but wasn't now. Coppery brown hair was brushed smoothly back from her forehead, to fall in waves to her shoulders. Mark wished she would smile with her eyes as well as her lips. His own smile faded, he took a deep breath and said, "I am sufficiently amazed." "Good. Then we can proceed. Luhor, is this the last one?" "Yes. He's the one I was telling you about." She turned her cold blue eyes upon Mark again. Her voice was emotionless, almost a monotone. "Luhor tells me you were exceedingly anxious to leave the Venus swamp. Why?" "Why!" Mark repeated in amazement. "Why does any man want to leave there? It's a living death—and I was slowly going crazy." "You had only been there a few months?" "That's right." "Why were you sent there?" Mark hesitated for a split second, and decided he had better stick to the same story he'd told Aladdo. "I'm a 'political'," he said. She nodded, as though satisfied. "I have never been actually in the swamp. I understand that you worked hard there?" "Yes, very hard. We had to, to stay alive." "You will work very hard for me—for the same reason. Perhaps you will wish you had stayed in the swamp. What can you do?" Mark brightened. "Around a spaceship? I can handle rocket-tubes, or controls. Also probably any weapon you care to mention. Calculations and differential equations are pretty easy. I could almost quote you the entire Advanced Principles of Space Navigation...." With a rush of nostalgia Mark was remembering all the mechanics and mathematics of his four years in Government Spacer School. He went on with cool confidence, "I could take one of your atomomotors apart, jumble the pieces and put it together again. I'm really a mechanic rather than a spaceman. Spacery's only a hobby of mine...." She swung her eyes over to the half-breed. Luhor nodded, grinning with huge amusement. She said to Mark: "You will work at the mines, where you are going. You can make that a hobby of yours. I do not like men with me in space who know more about a ship than I do." Mark slowly seethed, but said nothing. She waved a slim hand in dismissal. Luhor, still grinning, showed Mark the door by which to go out. III Mark awakened suddenly, aware that someone was shaking him. Intense light almost blinded him as he opened his eyes, and he shut them hurriedly. He lay for a few seconds enjoying the luxury of the berth on which he had slept. It had been long since he'd felt the yielding comfort of a coil-pad beneath his body, or cool Lynon sheets against his flesh. "Rouse yourself, sluggard!" The voice was mocking, familiar, rich with golden overtones. "Get that deficient brain of yours to working, lower order!" "Aladdo! You Venusian demon—where have you been?" In his delight Mark grabbed Aladdo's slender hands and almost crushed them. "I was beginning to think I'd have to tear this ship apart to find you!" "My hands!" Aladdo exclaimed in alarm and withdrew them. But there was shining joy in his smile. Perched on the edge of the berth, the tiny Venusian regarded the giant Earthman with laughing eyes, bluer even than the azure wings that hung like a cloak. But it was a subtly different Aladdo; glowing and clean until the exquisitely chiseled face was like alabaster, the curling close-cropped hair blue-black and gleaming. Dressed in a soft gray tunic and tight white trousers, the wings were vivid in contrast, almost iridescent. The tiny feet were encased in bootlets of red Ocelandian fur, and a belt of platinum links circled the narrow waist, holding a holster with a small short-range atom-blast. Surprised, Mark flicked a forefinger at the weapon and looked inquiringly at Aladdo. "They let you have this?" "Yes," the Venusian nodded. "Remember, Bedrim was my father; I can be most useful to them. Although my father's dead, there are still followers on three planets, ready at a moment's notice to rally behind a leader. I could be that leader —or at least appear to be. I am a guest of honor on this cruiser—a prisoner, of course," Aladdo smiled ironically, "but shown every courtesy. I even have my own private quarters instead of sleeping here with the crew." "But what is it all about, Aladdo?" Mark was exasperated as the mystery grew. "What's the purpose behind all this? Ruthless criminals salvaged from a Venusian Prison swamp, and now this super-cruiser built to withstand anything! And who is that girl? I—" But the Venusian interrupted him. "No time now. You'll learn everything presently. Dress quickly and come with me." "I'm dressed," Mark answered, springing up. He zipped on light, insulated shoes and followed Aladdo to the main cabin. The rest of the men were already there, clustered about the starboard ports in an excited group. The light in this room was blazing. Mark could feel the gentle vibration of the atomomotors somewhere deep in the spaceship, and again the question overwhelmed him: where were they going? He was soon to learn. Recklessly he gazed out into space. Instantly he pivoted away, as if a gigantic hand had spun him. He had looked almost directly into the sun! It was a sun vast beyond imagining, tongues of flame flickering slowly out for thousands of miles. He knew it was only the thickness of the Crystyte ports that saved the men's eyes. Slowly Mark's eyes became accustomed to the fierce glare and by shading them obliquely he could discern the object of the men's excitement—a dark little speck of a planet sweeping in its orbit just beyond the sun's rim. It rapidly grew larger as the spaceship moved inward on a long tangent. "Mercury!" Mark exclaimed, staring. "No, we crossed the orbit of Mercury two hours ago." It was Aladdo who spoke beside him. "Then, that must be ... but it's impossible!" Mark laughed a little wildly. "How long since we left Venus?" "Ten hours, Earthman. It is possible. That is the planet Vulcan." "Unbelievable," Mark almost whispered. "Why, it takes the fastest Patrol cruiser forty-eight hours to reach Mercury's orbit from Venus. Lord! What sort of speed has this Spacer?" But Aladdo didn't answer. A door had opened and Luhor stepped in. "Vulcan," he said tonelessly. "As we approach, even the thickness of these ports won't be enough. Put on these." He handed the men pairs of Crystyte goggles, the lenses specially processed. "Does this mean we're actually going to attempt a landing on Vulcan?" Mark asked the half-breed. "It's madness! It has never been done!" "But it has been done." Luhor gazed at Mark frigidly. "You merely have never heard of it." "Who's at the controls?" Mark struggled to subdue the excitement in his voice. "Why, the Commander, naturally—assisted by myself." Luhor's vast chest arched with pride. "Observe closely, Earthman, and you will be treated to as masterly a feat of navigation as you're likely ever to see again!" His purple orbs roved over the men, clean-dressed, and rested, the haunted look beginning to fade from their eyes. He nodded approval, as he turned and left. "A base at Vulcan!" Mark was repeating inwardly. And a cold fear at this growing mystery grew apace within him. It was not only a masterly feat of navigation—it was incredible as the hurtling spaceship continued along its tangent, until Vulcan, slightly smaller than Mercury, came swinging around to bisect their trajectory. Very neatly, their speed was manipulated to allow the planet to come between them and the sun; then the great Spacer began to pursue a direct course. Mark noticed that Vulcan kept one side eternally sunwards. Swiftly the spaceship approached the dark, outward side. Actually it was not "dark" but it could be called so in comparison with the molten sunward side. Mark realized the almost insurmountable difficulty of keeping the Spacer on a trajectory, with the sun's tremendous gravitational pull so dangerously near; the slightest deviation now would send them hurtling past Vulcan and into that naming hecotomb. He knew, as well, that there could be no atmosphere on Vulcan to help them brake. But even as these thoughts were racing through his mind, Vulcan came rushing up at them with the fury of a miniature hell running rampant. Its surface was lividly aglow, with the flaming curve of the sun as a backdrop blotting out the horizon. Suddenly they were leveling over its surface, at a speed that to Mark spelled disaster. He saw the fore-jets flaming over a wide terrain of what might have been lava or pumice, but that didn't seem to check their reckless speed at all. Directly ahead black mountain ranges sheered upward as if to disembowel the ship on jagged summits. Mark merely closed his eyes, awaiting the crash that seemed inevitable. No ship he knew could ever brake in time at that suicidal speed. A terrific force jarred him to the floor. A profound nausea made him retch. Then Luhor was touching his shoulder, and Mark opened his eyes. "All out, we're home!" the half-breed grinned. "You're lucky that the synchronized magnetic fields minimize deceleration, Earthman." Doors were opening, voices were drifting into the ship. The vibration of the atomomotors had ceased. White-faced and shaken, the men debarked into a wide corridor hewn out of solid rock, into which the ship had berthed. Glancing back, Mark saw metal doors of titanic proportions now hermetically closed; ahead were similar doors. Then he heard the deep, far-away throbbing of generators and he knew that he was in an air-lock built on a gigantic scale. A few seconds later the inner doors slid open. As they walked forward Luhor turned to Mark with a proud smile. "You won't find that type of navigation in the 'Advanced Principles,' eh, Earthman?" "No, indeed not," Mark admitted. "But I still don't understand that braking process!" Luhor pointed to colossal sets of coils, in niches along each side of the vast corridor. "Synchronized magnetic degravitation fields; they arrest mass and speed synchronously, finally stopping the spacer in a graduating net of force. Similar coils to these exist for a mile along the gorge back there, through which we came. Even so it is a very delicate and precise process." They stepped into a grotto so vast as to dwarf anything Mark had ever imagined. It extended for miles, sheltering an entire little city! Mark saw rows of stone dwellings, stream-lined, ultra-modern. From larger buildings came the sounds of blast furnaces and an occasional flash of ruddy glow. Groups of workmen hurried past, glanced curiously at the new arrivals but didn't stop to fraternize. And then Mark saw Carston. Ernest Carston! One of the very highest men among the Tri-Planetary Prison Bureau officials! The surprise stopped Mark Denning in his tracks, but fortunately, thanks to his training, he managed to keep his face impassive as they recognized each other simultaneously. Carston flashed him a quick look that seemed to say, "Later!" Then the newcomers were marching in silence to a spacious building, where they were assigned rooms. The furnishings were simple, but comfortable, and Luhor led them to the rear of the building where the dining-room was located. They ate with the famished eagerness of men who had long subsisted on compressed synthetic rations. Then they were issued cigarettes. To the men who had been doomed on Venus only a few hours previously, it was like awakening in heaven from a nightmare in hell. Through Mark's mind ran an ancient saying: "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow...." IV Standing in the doorway, the girl of the unsmiling blue eyes surveyed the new men silently. Her trim, aloof figure instantly commanded their attention, and their respect as well. "I cannot waste words on you," she said abruptly, "for my time is limited. I know all of your names, so you shall know mine as well, although it will mean nothing to you. I am Cynthia Marnik, but you will address me always as Commander. You will obey me implicitly in all things here. Second to me, you will obey Luhor. "All of you volunteered to come. Now that you're here, you are part of our scheme of things and you will work as hard as you did in the swamp. It is dangerous work, but you will have ample remuneration. Idlers and grumblers will be done away with, I promise you. Your lives were forfeit in the swamp, and that is not altered by your being on Vulcan." She paused as if waiting for objections, but every man was silent. "Very well; Luhor will explain later what you're here for. Meanwhile you are free to go anywhere you like within the city, but be ready to work about eight earth-hours from now." As abruptly as she had come, Commander Cynthia Marnik turned and was gone. The men smoked and talked among themselves, speculating what their tasks might be. The memory of the Prison Swamp was too recent for them to care much. Mark rose quietly and stepped out of the dining-room. He'd noticed that Aladdo was absent from the meal, and he wondered if his Venusian friend was still an 'honored guest.' Deciding to inspect the city, Mark tried to retrace his steps to those buildings where he had heard the blast furnaces; but at the first cross-corridor Ernest Carston stepped out and walked beside him. He smiled at Mark Denning, but held a warning finger to his lips. They walked in silence, while the corridors became rockier and more dimly lighted. At last, far away from the city, Carston stopped under an immense jutting rock and quietly gripped Mark's hand. There was a world of feeling in his voice as he said barely whispering: "I'd lost hope of ever seeing any of you again!" "How did you get here?" Mark asked the question that had been burning in his mind. "Did they pick you up at the swamp, too?" "Yes. We're both on the same trail—and here the trail ends." "But I had no idea you'd preceded me," Mark told him. "It must have been considered a far more important assignment than I was told, to send you to the Swamp!" "We didn't know, we weren't certain," Carston said thoughtfully. "But we received a bit of information which, if true, was of the greatest importance. It seemed impossible, fantastic, but the hazard was so great, that even what amounted to a vague rumor warranted my going. You were to follow in a few months, without knowing I had gone ahead. Well, you already know most of the rest; but Earth's government doesn't even suspect the deadly peril it will soon have to face!" "I'm afraid," Mark stated frankly, "that there are a lot of gaps in what I do know. I can tell, of course, that something mighty big is going on here. But what was that bit of information you received?" "It goes back nearly a quarter of a century," Carston replied slowly, "and concerns a man named George Marnik. He, and his young wife, were among the first pioneers to venture out to Callisto. Those were the ruthless years, when the great Earth Monopolies stopped at nothing, were very often lawless, and usually got what they wanted." Carston paused to light a cigarette. "George Marnik," he went on, "discovered one of the richest palladium veins on Callisto, and was developing it slowly. But—one of the Monopolies decided that it wanted Marnik's rich vein. In an ensuing struggle with some of the Monopoly's hired hoodlums, Marnik's wife was burned down brutally with an electro-gun. She left a daughter, about five years old, whom they had named Cynthia ... do you follow me?" "Go on," Mark said in a cold, dry voice. "Well, after the tragedy, George Marnik disappeared. He was never heard of again—except by the Earth Monopolies. They heard of him plenty. He terrorized the spacelanes for years, and more than one Monopoly went under, bankrupt by the incessant attacks on their ships by an enemy who had achieved a ruthlessness greater even than theirs. It was rumored that Marnik had vowed never to set foot on Earth again, and that his life was dedicated to the destruction of the Monopolies. He almost achieved his task, except that the Earth's government finally stepped in and dissolved the Monopolies." Carston paused and drew in a long breath. "And then?" Mark urged, as if fascinated by this saga of another day. "Why, then as you know, Emperor Bedrim of Venus achieved his famous alliance with Dar Vaajo of Mars, and together they sought to end Earth's domination and exploitation of their planets. You know about the bitter ten years' war—that's history. But when the Tri-Planetary Patrol was formed, during the truce that followed at the death of Bedrim, half the Solar System was searched for George Marnik's base and the rich plunder he was reputed to have there. It was all in vain. You can now see why! The Patrol has never been able to land on Vulcan." "But if I remember correctly," Mark Denning said reminiscently, "George Marnik was certified as dead, as the years went by and piracy ceased. The records gave no information as to his daughter Cynthia, she was merely marked 'Missing.'" "Precisely!" Carston assented. "Then that vital bit of information you received must have concerned this base on Vulcan!" "No. Worse! It concerned that George Marnik was alive and planning to end the Inter-Planetary Truce, to loose bitter war upon three worlds again!" "Good Lord!" Mark was stunned. "But how? Venus and Mars were disarmed under Earth's dictated peace!" "Yes, true. Mars is a small and dying race and not to be greatly feared. But Venus has never become reconciled. You know their unholy pride and their utter conviction that theirs are the greatest minds in our universe. Underneath the apparently peaceful surface, revolt's smoldering." "Revolt fanned by Marnik?" "Yes," Carston went on. "If George Marnik did have some fantastic plan in mind, Venus would be the likeliest place for him to find backing and followers. On the face of it, it seemed absurd, of course. But when the supply of Venusian Pearls dwindled to a mere trickle, and a criminal from the swamp was found dead millions of miles away, in the vicinity of Callisto, we knew then that there was a definite tie-up. It was time to investigate. George Marnik, the last space pirate, is alive—an ancient, embittered wreck living on hate!" Carston fell silent. "And Commander Cynthia, his daughter," Mark whispered musingly, "is the one in charge now!" "Yes. You wouldn't have believed it possible, eh? But remember, during those reckless years when her father was the most hunted man in the universe, Cynthia grew up with him, constantly at his side, learning all the tricks of a master at piracy. She must share her father's hatred for a world that only brought them tragedy and sorrow. Marnik's psychopathic, of course, his mind's warped; she must share his views, although at times I wonder ... sometimes when I look at her...." His voice dwindled. "So it all boils down to one thing," Mark's analytical mind had already absorbed all the facts. "That Spacer that brought us here is a menace to civilization. Its speed alone is beyond anything we have at present; a fleet of them could wreak havoc on Earth's forces. Earth must be warned at all costs, Carston!" Ernest Carston looked at Mark pityingly, lines of weariness and anxiety creasing his face. "Do you think," he said slowly, "if there were any way out, I would be here? Vulcan and the Venus Swamp both have a thing in common: there's no escape, except through Marnik. Commander Cynthia only carries out his orders." "But she's a woman, Carston. If she could be made to realize what another Inter-Planetary war means—the awful carnage, the destruction—perhaps she could somehow be reached!" "I wish that were possible!" Carston exclaimed fervently. "But she's like a being that's hypnotized. George Marnik must dominate her completely, old and decrepit as he must be. Remember, it's the only life she's ever known. He must be the only being she's ever loved." "Have you any concrete knowledge of their plans?" "No. Only deductions. Dar Vaajo, ruler...