Trouble on Titan/Chapter X
THE party was well into the occupied portion of the city. The Titanian began gently hinting by signs that he wished to communicate through the thought helmet. Strike quickly assigned each squad to a street-level apartment, urging them to be alert for the signal. Oxygen bottles were fastened to the men's belts to leave their hands free. The dull booming sound of the gong came at once.
The Titanians as usual conveyed infinite regret that they should be forced to leave their guests. It was a rudeness that pained them deeply. Strike bowed and waved his hands understandingly, watched them disappear.
"Now!" he shouted.
The squads scattered on their assignments. Strike, Gerry and young Barrows darted into the nearest apartment. The Titanians had already composed themselves in their deep slumber.
Swiftly Gerry whipped out an enormous hypodermic and went to work. While Barrows held the container, she shot stream after stream of the sticky ichor into it, exsiccating the gland. Strike seized the smallest piece of furniture in the room, a queer device shaped somewhat like a piano stool. He strode to the hole in the floor and listened.
Like a distant waterfall came the rush of thousands of little feet. The miniature thunder rolled nearer and nearer. Then he heard something scrambling just beyond the limit of his vision in the black pit. A horrid snout poked sharply into view.
"Down you go!" shouted Strike.
He slammed down the stool-like contraption on the protruding head. The Gora vanished with an agonized hiss. The hole was completely blocked by the stool.
Gerry and Barrows glanced about apprehensively. Reassured by Strike's confident grimace, they turned to the second sleeping Titanian. Underneath the stool a Gora was hammering and pushing, but they were no match for Strike's weight and strength. One bony, needlelike tongue jabbed clear through the bottom of the obstruction. Strike promptly snapped it off with a vicious blow.
All over the city now, the sounds of uproar began. The Gora who had been blockaded had evidently spread the news. Enraged monsters were erupting from unclosed holes and converging upon the source of the disturbance. Just as Gerry started to work upon the third of the Titanians, four of the beasts rushed through the doorway, hissing with fury.
Strike calmly picked up a huge table and with one hand scaled it across the room. The resulting carnage gave him a lot of pleasure. He sat upon the up-ended stool, still blocking the hole, and drew two guns.
"What was that yarn about the tailor's boy who killed seven with one blow? I'm not doing so badly myself."
His heat ray licked out once, twice. For the time being, six dead Gora effectively barricaded the entrance. Gerry hurriedly finished her work, tossed the hypodermic aside. Barrows sealed the precious can of fluid.
"All set?" asked Strike reluctantly.
As Gerry nodded, the reptilian tangle of dead bodies burst inward under a new assault. Gora began to stream in. Coolly the three began to fire, backing toward a window that led to the street. The deadly sniping quickly stalled the attack. The odor of burning flesh filled the room. The Titanians, aroused by the clamor, lurched about. Still half-asleep, they wrung their hands in futile distress.
BARROWS slipped through the window first. His disappearance was marked by an exclamation of pain and anger. Gerry and Strike, piling through after him, found the lieutenant battling ferociously. Blood streamed from a slash across his forehead and welled slowly from two stabs on his left arm. He was encircled by twitching, dead and dying Gora.
The remaining squads from the Ark were converging rapidly upon the central rendezvous, fighting deadly rearguard actions. Swiftly Strike counted his forces.
"Only seventeen!" he snapped. "Who's missing?"
It was Kranz, a veteran of the Carlyle adventures from the very first expedition. Dead or not, he couldn't be left behind. Without a backward glance, Strike asked which apartment Kranz had been in. Then he yelled a fierce battle-cry.
"Come on, gang. Let's go!"
In a single mighty bound, he leaped clear over the encircling Gora and dashed for the indicated building. He vanished inside. After momentary hesitation, four of the crew jumped after him. The structure trembled with the fury of the battle within. Then Strike reappeared with the bleeding, semiconscious Kranz over one shoulder.
The additional weight made it impossible for Strike to return by jumping over the enemy. But he peeled back his lips in a fighting snarl and rushed with reckless fury, his two guns spitting deadly heat beams. For a minute the Gora seemed on the verge of overwhelming him. But just before they succeeded, they broke in confused panic before the advance of that terrible engine of destruction. They fled, hissing and squealing.
Strike and the others rejoined Gerry. Kranz still dangled over his shoulder. "Now's our chance," panted Strike, between draughts from his oxygen bottle. "Make our run for it while they're disorganized. Ready? What's the matter with you?"
Gerry stood staring at Strike with her lips parted, her eyes shining. She was experiencing that strange emotion —a compound of awe, fright and admiration—that every woman knows when she sees the man she loves in two-fisted action.
"Anything wrong?" demanded Strike.
"No, Tommy," she replied obediently.
"Then get going."
"Yes, Tommy."
Gerry led the way out of the city. They ran laxly, with the gliding, ground-hugging stride that saves energy and covers space on low-gravity worlds. They crossed the plain and were well into the hills, within sight of the small party waiting there, before the Gora took up the chase. Without pause, Gerry's group kept right on going. It was their first and only duty to get the flux back to the Ark.
Twenty minutes of steady jogging brought them three miles of the way. Exhausted, they called a brief halt. Flinging themselves down on the ground, they sucked at their oxygen bottles avidly. But the bottles had been drawn upon heavily during the mad flight across Titan. Now they were nearly empty. Everyone made the discovery at once. Promptly they closed the valves, consciously forcing themselves to modulate their heavy breathing. It was not too successful. A dozen ordinary breaths left their lungs starving for oxygen.
Strike rose slowly.
"No time for rest, I guess. My fault for not caching a supply of bottles on the trail somewhere. Got to keep moving as long as possible. Save as much oxygen as you can for a final dash."
THEY were still one-fourth of the way from the ship when the embattled rear-guard caught up with them. Blue-faced from lack of oxygen, not one of them was without wounds. They had been trapped in a cul-de-sac and forced to storm their way out. Without oxygen reserves, and bleeding from cuts, they were staggering in the final stages of exhaustion.
Nor was there any respite at hand. In the near distance rose a towering column of dust in the breathless air, kicked up by hundreds of enraged Gora. The monsters stampeded along the trail to avenge the death of their kind and wipe out the intruders who threatened to upset their tight little economy.
As if the danger were not serious enough, the rear-guard leader injected another menace into the situation.
"Our heat ray guns, Miss Carlyle," he gasped. "They're running low. The beams are weak. Have any spares?"
A quick check-up showed that no one had any spares, and the guns of the main party were also found to be nearly exhausted. Strike shifted the burden of Kranz from one shoulder to the other.
"Well, Gerry, what do you do in that orange orchard of yours when the ants get as bad as this?" he asked.
"We put a patented device around the trunks of the trees, impregnated with something the ants can't cross over," Gerry said thoughtfully. "Sort of they-shall-not-pass strategy."
She paused, trembling on the verge of an idea. They were approaching a narrow defile between steep cliffs. On the farther side of this would be the open plain leading to the Ark. If they could somehow block that defile
"Of course!" yelped Strike. "We'll give 'em a super-colossal hotfoot!" Everyone stared at him as if he had gone insane. But he herded the party quickly down the canyon, stopping just beyond the narrowest part.
"With the remaining energy in our guns, we couldn't begin to annihilate the Gora," he panted. "But we can lay down an impassable barrier. Look!"
He aimed a continuous blast at the rocky canyon bottom. The lavalike stuff smoked faintly, began to glow. Finally it bubbled and heaved like a mud geyser as it became molten. The effort completely emptied Strike's weapon. He cast it aside. But the others had caught on. Recklessly they poured their heat rays along the rough rock floor, from one side of the passage to the other. They made a complete band about five feet wide, extending from cliff to cliff, of seething lava. When their guns were useless, the party withdrew to a safe distance to watch.
The vanguard of the Gora raced into sight, pouring down the narrowing V-shaped gap toward the bubbling ribbon of doom. When they were almost upon the boiling magma, the leaders skidded to a halt, hissing shrilly. But those behind were unable to see any reason for stopping. They piled into the leaders with irresistible momentum. All of them sank waist-deep in the molten rock. Squealing hideously, they writhed in brief torture.
A cloud of steam quickly rose, mercifully hiding the slaughter. Louder and shriller came the shrieks of the dying Gora as hundreds, blinded by the steam and their own insensate fury, rushed headlong to an awful death.
STRIKE, first to find his voice, yelled above the noise.
"Better move on, gang. That stuff'll cool and some of 'em will get through." Tearing themselves from the horridly fascinating scene, the hunters walked slowly away. They reached the Ark without further incident.
Their first action was to fling themselves down in the recreation room, seal themselves in tight, and literally bathe in blessed oxygen. Even Kranz, seriously though not fatally wounded, craved to saturate himself with oxygen even before going to the infirmary. Breathing easily was the most important immediate reward of their victory.
For two Titanian days and nights, rotating shifts of eager workers kept the shriek of welding and the clangor of hammers going almost without ceasing. At decreasing intervals, marauding bands of Gora came snooping around. But a blast of the proton cannon quickly discouraged their taste for this sort of entertainment. The last few hours of labor were without interruption of any kind.
Finally the centrifuge was repaired and new plates had been installed to make the engine rooms air-tight once more. As Gerry prepared to depart, she felt a curious mixture of relief and reluctance.
She had no fear that the Titanians would suffer because of human interference. The Gora were, indeed, too dependent upon the Titanians to avenge themselves upon their hosts. But there was so much to be learned, so many mysteries unsolved, so great a story yet untold! She wished they could remain and solve the mysteries. Perhaps they could even assist the likable Titanians to break loose from the invisible chains which bound them to their parasitic masters.
Instead, though, they had to leave at once. There was the matter of Kurtt, and Von Zorn, and their livelihood was in the balance. Yes, there was a score to be settled here, and the sooner the better. Maybe they could return some time. But now
Ports clanged shut. The rotors began to whine in rising crescendo to a thin whistle that passed beyond the range of human ears. The Ark trembled, then rose in a breath-taking swoop. There were some doubtful moments among the engineers as they apprehensively watched the results of their welding. But no signs of strain developed. The patched centrifuge seemed as good as new.
"Full speed ahead!" came Gerry's command.
The Ark began to accelerate rapidly. Titan fell away, dropping to the size of a baseball, a marble, a pinpoint of light that was ultimately obscured. Saturn itself began to shrink, as if being squeezed by the encircling rings. The Ark began to approach a speed of thousands of miles per minute.
Still the relentless acceleration continued. There was no fuel supply to worry about. Gerry could call upon the almost infinite power of centrifugal force to drive them faster and ever faster through the vacuum of interplanetary space.
Gerry had no intention of coasting. Mechanical breakdown under the terrific drive was the only hazard. Carefully calculating the staying powers of her centrifuges under continual stress, she decided the risk was not too great, considering the prize at stake. So the speed was built up beyond anything ever achieved by ordinary rocket ships dependent upon atomic fuel. Jupiter loomed on the starboard, with its flock of scattered satellites, then quickly dropped behind.