Читать книгу The Space Opera MEGAPACK ® - Jay Lake - Страница 6

SPAWN OF JUPITER, by E. C. Tubb

Durgan heard the sound as he crested the rise. He froze, eyes narrowed to probe the dimness. Dimness, not dark, for it was never dark at night on Ganymede—the great ball of Jupiter filling the sky took care of that, the flaring mystery of the Red Spot seeming to look down like a watchful eye.

The sound came again, a stirring, a scuffle as of a boot against vegetation, a movement of bulk.

Durgan stepped from the path into the shadow of a clump of lee­tha bushes. Carefully he eased the bulging pack from his shoulders and rested it quietly on the ground. Picking up a handful of stones he threw one far down the trail in the direction from which he had come.

“Listen!” The voice was a whisper. “Did you hear that?”

Durgan threw another stone.

“Someone’s coming. Get ready!”

Two of them at least, but it was unlikely there would be more. Two men were enough to handle an unsuspecting harvester, and more would only lessen the individual share. They would be waiting on either side of the path, one lower down than the other, and would attack from both front and rear. If merciful, they might not actually kill him, but simply knock him unconscious and strip him of everything of value. But to be naked on Ganymede was to be dead.

Durgan crept silently through the bushes, easing aside the lacey fronds and letting them spring back with a minimum of noise. A stone turned beneath his boot, and he almost fell, recovering his balance with a rustle of leaves.

He sprang forward as a shape loomed suddenly upright. It was turning with a glimmer of whiteness from the face, and a brighter shine from the upraised knife.

Durgan met the threat of the blade with a thrust of his own, the knife whipping from the top of his boot and lancing forward all in one smooth motion. The point hit the exposed column of the throat, ripped into flesh and muscle, cutting the great arteries and releasing a fountain of blood.

Dying, the man fell, threshing, ugly sounds coming from his throat.

“Jarl?”

Durgan reached for his gun as the other man called from the shadowed dimness.

“Jarl?”

Durgan fired, the gout of flame traversing the path and impinging on the upright figure, searing and penetrating with a shaft of irresistible heat. The man screamed, his body a flaring pillar of fire as leatheroid crisped and burned. He fell with an odor of charred meat, his chest and lungs totally destroyed.

For five minutes Durgan waited, crouched in the shadows beside the path, gun steady in his hand as his eyes searched the night. Then he holstered the weapon and looked at the first man he had killed.

He was young, with the facial attributes of a wolf, teeth bared and snarling even in death. His clothing was filthy, his boots worn, and he had black crescents beneath his fingernails. He had no gun, no pack, only the knife and a thick club. His companion was much the same. Two scavengers who had sought one victim too many.

Returning to the clump of leethan bushes, Durgan picked up his pack, shouldered it, and continued on his way.

* * * *

An hour later, he reached Candara.

The settlement was a ramshackle place, a maze of buildings, shacks, and hovels built of stone and dirt and plastic, looming warehouses and rundown tenaments. The streets were unpaved, thick with litter and filth, rutted and splotched with odorous puddles. To one side, the landing field rested beneath a continuous haze of light, the tall contours of the control tower spidery against the glowing disc of Jupiter.

As he hit the edge of the settlement, a rykat barked a warning, the sharp, thin sound eerie in its haunting loneliness. A window slammed and a man called out.

“I’ve got a gun. Try anything and I’ll shoot!”

Durgan walked past, silent, hearing the rykat bark again, the man’s muttered cursing, and the slam of the closing window. Deeper into the maze of buildings, he heard the sound of music and laughter, the rattle of glasses, the unmistakable whirling noise made by a spinning wheel. Keeping to the center of the path, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun, he made his way to a tall building on the edge of the landing field: the trading post.

“You’re late.” The factor, a thin-faced man with red-rimmed eyes and a thin, predatory nose, glared from behind his counter as Durgan entered. “I was just about to call it a day. Can’t it wait?”

For answer, Durgan shrugged the pack from his shoulders and lifted it to the counter. Opening it, he produced a transparent plastic bag filled with grayish pods, each two inches long and a quarter wide. Raw kalsh, the vegetable compound which, when cleaned and refined, would fetch twice its weight in gold on Earth.

The factor pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

“Man! That’s some harvest! How long have you been out?”

“Six weeks.” Durgan was curt. “I want to check it in. Weigh it, seal it, and give me a receipt. We can finish the deal later.”

“Why not now?”

“Just do as I say.”

Durgan leaned against the counter as the factor busied himself with scales and seals. The overhead light illuminated the strong lines of Durgan’s face, the tall length of his body. It was a hard face and a muscular body both blurred a little now by fatigue, the eyes creped with tiny lines, the shoulders a trifle bowed. Six weeks in the Freelands was a long time for any one man to harvest.

“You want some spending money?” The factor came to the counter, papers in his hands. “A couple of hundred, say?”

Durgan nodded.

“I thought so. Just sign here and put your thumb here.” The factor watched as Durgan followed instructions. “You know the old saying? Work hard and play hard? If you want some fun, Madam Kei’s got some new talent just arrived.”

“No thanks,” said Durgan.

“Each to his own poison,” said the factor. He reached out and touched a spot on Durgan’s tunic, frowning as he examined the carmine stain on his finger. “You have any trouble?”

“Should I have had?”

“You know better than me, mister. I just buy the stuff. Here’s your cash. Drop in tomorrow and we can finish the deal.” He looked at Durgan’s extended hand. “Something else?”

“The receipt.”

“Oh! Sure! I forgot.” The factor handed it over, looking at the name. “Hey! There’s something else slipped my mind. A dame’s been asking for you. Said she’d wait in the Purple Puppy. You know it?”

“I know it. What did she want?”

The factor shrugged. “That she didn’t say.”

* * * *

Durgan saw the woman the moment he stepped into the tavern. She sat alone at a table close to the stage, long legged, dressed in clean leatheroid, high boots, pants, blouse, and tunic. A holstered gun lay flat against her stomach. Blond hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail which rested on her left shoulder. Her face was round, full-lipped, with a determined jaw and eyes. She was a woman, but there was nothing soft about her, as there was nothing soft about Ganymede. She was, he guessed, about twenty-five, which made her five years younger than himself.

To the bartender, he said, “Give me a bottle of zulack and a couple of glasses.” Paying he added, “The woman facing the stage. Who is she?”

The man shrugged. “A drifter. Came in here about three weeks ago. Some of the boys tried their hand, but she soon made the position clear. One of them wouldn’t learn, so she burnt a hole in his stomach. No one’s bothered her since then.”

Durgan nodded, picked up his bottle and glasses and headed towards where she sat, halting at the empty table at her side. As he sat, the floor show commenced, and he opened the bottle, threw away the top inch of liquor, and filled one of the glasses. Sipping, he watched the performance.

Someone had imported a troupe of dancers, sleek, olive-skinned women with long, black hair and flounced skirts, who stamped and pirouetted to the blood-stirring rattle of castanets. Behind them a man lifted his voice in the undulating wail of a flamenco as his fingers danced over the strings of a guitar.

It was an odd troupe to be found in such a place, for little of the Inner Worlds touched the Outer Planets, and Ganymede was used to cruder entertainment. Wejack birds, clipped and fitted with iron spurs, set to fight against each other to the death; broken singers on the last lap of their careers; jugglers, acrobats, mutants who swallowed fire, men who fought with spiked gloves to the screamed encouragement of their backers. These dancers brought a touch of Earth, of sun and sea and shining beaches, of grapes and scented air, of rainbows and gentle breezes.

One day, perhaps, he would see it again. One day.

He drank the zulack and refilled his glass. A hand caught his own as he made to set down the bottle.

“You have two glasses,” said the woman. “Would one be for me?”

“It might.”

“Meaning that you are uncharitable?”

“Meaning that I would rather not drink with strangers.” He met the coolness of the blue eyes. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.”

“You are Brad Durgan,” she said. “I am Sheila Moray. Now may I join you?”

He nodded, pouring the second glass full as she took a chair, handing it to her, suddenly acutely aware of her femininity, the sensuous throb of the music.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “But, of course, you know that. The factor would have told you.”

“He told me that a woman wanted to see me. He didn’t say who and he didn’t say why.” Durgan drank more of the zulack. It was a hundred proof spirit, flavored with kalsh-pods, a limpid green devil containing smoldering fires.

Those fires burned away some of his fatigue and a few of his memories. The scent of charred flesh, of newly shed blood, of straining weeks of constant anxiety, of fear and failure, of a future which held no hope and little promise.

“You drink too much,” she said as he refilled his glass. “Or shouldn’t I say that?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Then let’s talk of something else. Of the dancers, perhaps. You like them?”

“They’re different.”

“They were heading for Callisto, on contract to the Ku Fung franchise, but their ship developed a split tube lining and they docked here for repairs.”

“So?”

“Callisto. Twice as far from Jupiter as we are now. A satellite almost the twin of Ganymede. You know about Callisto?”

“I know.”

“And Amalthea?”

“A small moon, a hundred miles in diameter, a hundred and thirteen thousand miles from the center of Jupiter.” His hand tightened around his glass. “I know Amalthea.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You would. It’s the bucket boat depot. Right?”

He swallowed the zulack in a single gulp, refilling the glass as the dancers came to the end of their performance.

Men rose, shouting, flinging a shower of coins onto the stage.

One, bolder than the rest, sprang on the platform, his hands grabbing at a woman. He caught the shoulder-strap of her flounced gown, olive-skin glowing in the light as he ripped at the material. From the wings ran two men, hard-faced, armed. They clubbed down the intruder and stood, hands on guns, as the dancers left the stage.

They were replaced by a weary comedian who thickened the air with the blueness of his painful jokes.

“They clubbed the wrong man,” said Sheila dispassionately. “That creep should be put in a sack and left as bait for gizzards.”

“He’s doing his best,” said Durgan. “We all do our best.”

“And where does it get you? Home? Earth? Back to comfort and safety? How long does a man have to harvest before he hits the jackpot?” She reached forward and rested her hand on his own. It was slender, the skin smooth and uncalloused, the nails reflecting the light with a pearly sheen. “There’s blood on your tunic. This time you won; the next, who knows? Is that how you want to end? Meat for the scavengers?”

He met her eyes.

“You’re saying something, but what? And why are you interested in me? I’ve never seen you before.”

“That’s true.”

“Then why the interest?”

“You’re tall,” she said. “Tough, a good-looker. For most girls that would be reason enough. But they would want something. I don’t. Instead, I can offer you the biggest thing you’ve ever met in your life. A chance at the jackpot. Money enough to set you up on Earth, a farm on Mars, a dome on Venus—you name it and it’s yours.”

Durgan was ironic. “Sure—and all I have to do is to give you a stake so you can go and collect the lost treasure of Ma Kalah. Bury it, girl! You’re talking to the wrong man!”

“And you’re jumping to conclusions.” Her hand lifted, caught his wrist as he lifted the glass, twisted so that the zulack fell in a glinting stream to the surface of the table. “What are you, a sponge? Has that stuff rotted your mind and blocked your ears? I’m talking, Brad, can’t you even listen?”

“To what?”

“A proposition. A trip to Callisto—all expenses paid, and a bonus for wasted time if you turn down the offer.”

“And that is?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes were frank. “I was sent to collect you, and that’s all. But it’s something big, that at least I know. Agree and we can leave within the hour.”

Durgan shook his head.

“You’re turning me down?”

“No,” he said. “But we can’t leave until tomorrow. I’ve got money owing and I want to collect.”

* * * *

Distances are relatively unimportant in the Jovian system, only time is of value. Time to skirt the mammoth globe of the primary, to edge along the trap of its gravity well, to juggle speed and direction so as to reach where you wanted to go. Other things were minor but ever-present hazards: the threat of solar flares, trapped debris that added to the multiple moons, wandering fragments of interstellar rubbish which had been snared by the giant planet.

Durgan slept the major part of the journey, waking hours before landing, joining the girl in the compact lounge of the inter-moon transport. She had changed and now wore a short dress of glittering fiber; matching boots clung high on her thighs, a belt of synthetic gems accentuating the swell of her hips. Her hair, groomed and curled, hung like a curtain of shimmering gold on the rounded smoothness of her shoulders.

To his questions she said, “Wait. You’ll get all the answers after we land.”

Callisto wasn’t Ganymede, though both had much the same mass and bulk. Here the big companies had established their franchises, terraforming the globe with imbedded devices, setting up domed cities of sterile glass and plastic which reared in startling contrast to the gaping pits of tremendous workings.

Durgan watched as they landed, seeing men tending machines, ant-like in their ordered confusion, slave-like in their dependence on one or the other of the great combines which owned the satellite and permitted grudging entry to those unattached. Yet despite their control, some freedom remained. The freedom to range outside the cities and workings, to starve for want of employment, to die unnoticed and ignored.

In a small room in one of the featureless buildings, Durgan met the man who held all the answers.

He was a small, wrinkled, shrewd-eyed man with a suit of expensive fiber and a heavy ring, which winked with flashing colors as he moved his hand. He nodded to the girl, and she left; then he gestured towards a table loaded with a dozen kinds of liquor.

“You are a drinking man, Mr. Durgan. What is your pleasure?”

“Brandy,” said Durgan and added, “The real stuff. From Earth.”

“A test, Mr. Durgan?” The man smiled. “If it is, I can pass it. My name, by the way, is Creech. I take it that you are interested in my proposition?”

“I can tell you that when I’ve heard what it is.” Durgan tasted his brandy, finding it insipid after zulack. “But, of course, you know how much I was told. Your messenger was most discreet.”

“Not without reason.” Creech took a chair, waited until his guest was seated and then said, “How are your nerves, Durgan?”

“Good enough.”

“Good enough for what? Could you ride a bucket boat again?”

Could he dip once more into hell? Durgan leaned back, eyes veiled, listening again to the screaming threnody of Jupiter’s atmosphere tearing at the skin of his boat, seeing the swirl and twist of vapor against the screens, feeling the bucking confusion and horrible disorientation. Each ride had been a gamble. Every trip had meant running the gauntlet with death waiting a hairsbreadth away. To ride a stream of fire down into the tremendous gaseous envelope, to level out at a selected depth, to trip the opening of the bucket, the huge plastic envelope trailing after the vessel, to cram it full of compressed gases—ammonia, methane, hydrogen even—a slew of elements waiting to be gathered—to seal the bucket and then to drag it up and out of the atmosphere and back to the depot on Amalthea.

Could he do it again?

“They said I was past it. That my reflexes had grown too slow. They ended my contract on three days’ notice.”

Creech leaned forward. “Did you agree with them?”

“No.”

“But there was more, wasn’t there? The last trip you took. You returned empty. Why?”

“I hit a bad spot. The convection currents were all to hell. When I tried to level out, I couldn’t hold the boat steady enough to open the bucket. Had I tried, it would have dragged me out of control. So I gave up and got out.”

“Right out.” Creech bit thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I’ve read the psych-reports, and they say you lost your nerve. That you turned coward. That you aborted the dip without really giving yourself a chance. Are they wrong?”

Durgan looked at his brandy then set aside the glass.

“They weren’t down there,” he said. “They didn’t feel what I felt. All they had to go on was the relayed instrument-readings, and they aren’t to be trusted. I could have taken a gamble and probably died because of it. I figured that it was better to be a live coward than a dead hero. Alive, I could try again. Dead, they would have lost the boat.”

“And so they kicked you out. You went to Ganymede and lived as a harvester.” Creech picked up the glass of brandy and handed it back to Durgan. “Drink it. It may be your last for some time.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ve got a job for you. I’ll say it quick. I want you to drop down to the bottom. To hit the core of Jupiter. Right down through the envelope until you reach solid ground.”

“No,” said Durgan.

“You mean you won’t do it?”

“I mean that it can’t be done. Can you even begin to realize what the pressure is like down there? The bottoms of terrestrial oceans would be a vacuum in comparison. Down there hydrogen and nitrogen would be compressed into liquid ammonia, the—”

“I know about the pressure,” interrupted Creech. “And about the gravity, two and a half Earth normal, but it can be done and I have the vessel to do it. All I need is a pilot with guts enough to handle it. Guts and experience so that he can ride the winds and stay in one piece. In return, I’ll make that man rich for life.”

Durgan looked at his glass, at the brandy it contained. A bottle of the stuff would cost more than he could harvest in a week. The girl hadn’t lied, she had shown him the jackpot; from now on, it was up to him if he hoped to collect.

Quietly he said, “When do I learn the rest?”

“You don’t. Not unless you agree to ride all the way. Bucket riders are scarce. Most of them die young and the rest are broken. You didn’t break. The fact that you managed to survive on Ganymede proves that. That’s why I sent for you. Are you with me?”

“You’ve got yourself a pilot,” said Durgan. And swallowed the brandy.

* * * *

It was an old and familiar dream. A hand was pressing him down hard against the ground, and it kept on pressing. His chest collapsed, the broken ends of shattered ribs lacerating his lungs, his intestines squashed into a messy pulp. The bones of his skull began to yield, but still the giant hand kept pressing, pressing, grinding against skin and bone until he was nothing but a red smear on the dirt. And still the hand kept pressing until there was nothing but a liquid trace, cells imploding, molecules crumpling, elements forced together to make new compounds.

And the worst part was that he was still alive, still aware and able to feel.

It wouldn’t be like that, Durgan knew. If the hull was breached, death would be instantaneous, a blast of pressure which would paste him against the metal before he would have time to even guess at what was happening. But the cold knowledge brought little comfort. Imagination still continued to haunt him with speculations of what might happen, what would happen if something went wrong.

The others didn’t appear to be worried.

Nanset was the engineer, a quiet, scholarly-looking man who wore contact lenses and spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. Pendris was different, a tough veteran of the Jovian moons, a hard man with calculating eyes and the muscles of a bull. His job was to operate the waldoes.

Creech made the introductions, then retreated to stand beside a screen. Sheila took a position beside a projector, a warm touch of color in the otherwise spartan furnishings of the room.

“Now that we have all met, I want to brief you on what has to be done.” Creech’s dry, emotionless voice was swallowed by the soundproofing of the chamber. “As you know, we are going to send a vessel down to the solid core of Jupiter. Nanset has assured me that his force-field will provide ample protection against the pressure and, as his own neck will be involved, I tend to believe him. Aside from that, the vessel has been reinforced with multiple hulls to allow for a cascade accumulation against external pressure. To adjust the build-up will be Pendris’s job. Durgan, naturally, will be the pilot. The nature of the operation is basically simple. We are going to salvage a lost cargo.”

He snapped his fingers as light and color glowed from the screen, flight paths traced in strands of white, red dots moving to illustrate his explanation.

“A few months ago, a ship of the United Combines set out for Earth. Unfortunately, it was hit by a scrap of uncharted debris that contained sufficient velocity to throw the vessel towards Jupiter. The heat-energy generated by the impact fused the drive-system and, helpless, the ship fell into the atmosphere. Before being destroyed the crew managed to arrange a continuous-message broadcast, and the descent of the stricken vessel was monitored all the way down to just before the final landing. The cargo was, and is, extremely valuable. Recovery will ensure that we all gain rich rewards.”

Put like that, it was simple, idiotically so. Durgan glanced from one to the other of his crew, and when neither mentioned the obvious, he did so himself.

“Jupiter isn’t a small place. You’re talking of something which has close to twenty-five thousand million square miles of solid surface area.”

Creech turned from the screen. “I know that.”

“Radio transmissions from the planet aren’t reliable. If you’re hoping that cross-bearings determined the crash-point, then you’re hoping for too much.”

“I realize that also.” Creech was unflustered. “Fortunately, we don’t have to depend on dead-reckoning, radio fixes, or educated guesses. The entire descent of the vessel was computerized and the probable crash-point has been determined to within five square miles.” He snapped his fingers before Durgan could say more. The picture on the screen changed to that of a spaceship.

“The Archimedes,” said Creech. “The vessel that crashed. You will note that it is a normal interplanetary transport with capabilities for carrying both cargo and passengers. No passengers were carried on its last journey. A special cargo container was fitted within the hull and occupied this space.” His hand tapped the screen. “I think it safe to presume that the vanes carrying the guiding jets would have been ripped from the structure within a short while after entering the atmosphere. I think we can also assume that the crash with the meteor weakened the rear so that too would have been torn free. The remainder, together with the cargo container, most probably fell as a single unit, perhaps disintegrating on landing.”

He paused as if expecting objections and, when he received none, continued.

“It may be necessary to cut free the cargo container, and the salvage vessel has been provided with means to do so. You will also be provided with power-assisted suits to enable you to move in the high gravity. Continuous scrambled-beam radio transmission will be maintained during the entire flight. Miss Moray will take care of communications. Have any of you any questions?’

Pendris lifted his voice. “Do we get a chance of some training? If I’m to handle unfamiliar devices in a hostile environment, I’d like to check them out before we start.”

“This is only a preliminary briefing. You will have ample time to do as you suggest.”

Durgan said, “I’m not happy about the crash-point area. It’s too large. Five square miles is a lot of territory when you’re relying on naked-eye vision—and in the soup, you don’t see far at the best of times. Is there any way of narrowing the field?”

“There is. I will tell you about it later.”

“All right, I’ll accept that, but what about the computerized landing? Down low, conditions are unknown. How could a machine have determined the correct flight-path?”

“It did. You must take my word for it.”

Nanset whispered, “This cargo. Supposing the container has burst and scattered the contents. How will we recognize it?”

“I’ll tell you that just before you leave.” Creech nodded to the girl, and the screen went blank as she turned off the projector. “From now on, you stay together. You talk to no one and you go nowhere without my permission. Is that perfectly clear?”

“In other words, we’re prisoners,” said Durgan grimly.

“You object?”

“I object to a lot of things, and one of them is putting my head on a block. But making a fortune is something I like. For that I’m prepared to play along, but I like to know what the rewards are.”

Creech met his eyes. “I promised you all that you will be rich for life.”

“Rich is just a word, and for me it isn’t good enough. How about some figures?”

“Five million,” said Sheila from where she stood behind the projector. “Five million for each of you. Good enough?”

Pendris whistled. “For me, yes.”

Nanset blinked. Durgan turned to face the girl and met her cool stare.

“The jackpot,” she said. “That’s what I promised, and that’s what you’ll get. Any more questions?”

“One,” said Durgan. “Where is the ship?”

“On Europa.” Creech stepped from the screen. “We’ll be there in three days time.”

* * * *

Europa, half the mass of Luna, almost half a million miles from the heart of Jupiter, a place of eroded stone and crumbling rock. A small place with sheds and workshops, electric furnaces burning their way into the metallic heart, atomic engines spewing out heat and light and slugs of fuel for the engines that sent the ships across the void.

A rough place with the great disc of Jupiter filling the sky at night and the sun a pin-point at day. Airless, barren, a disposal dump for unwanted scrap. An ideal place in which to convert a ship in privacy.

Durgan checked that ship inch by inch.

It was an adapted bucket boat, the massive hull reinforced by four extra sets of plating, each removed from the other by thick stanchions. The engines had been removed, the cabin space reduced, the bucket controls and housing sealed. In the increased space, new engines had been fitted which gave three times the original power. Sheathed in external housings, the waldo attachments broke the smooth contours. The stubby wings to grip and ride the atmosphere were like the feathers on an arrow.

As he worked, Durgan brooded. The ship had cost money, the conversions more. Whatever the cargo was that Creech hoped to salvage, it must be of immense value. Something to justify the essential investment of equipment. He spoke about it to the girl.

“It’s none of your business,” said Sheila. “Believe that, Brad. Just do the job you’ve contracted to do and forget the rest.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Are you so rich you can afford to throw away five million?”

“What five million?” They were sitting beneath a dome of transparent plastic, drinking coffee imported from the Inner Worlds, listening to music recorded a century before. The glow of Jupiter-light cast colored shadows on the pale contours of her face, touched her hair with transient gleams. “You can’t lose what you’ve never had so what the hell are you talking about?”

“Forget it, Brad. Take what life brings and stop arguing. Look on it as just another job.”

“Is that what you think it is?” He looked up at the glowing face of the planet. Tonight the Red Spot was unusually bright. “Look at it. All you can see is the upper limits of the atmosphere, but try to imagine what it’s like lower down. Or, if you can’t do that, go and see some of the bucket boat riders. You’ll find them in the psycho wards, scared of a shadow, unable to stand even the pressure of a sheet. That’s the way it gets you in the end.”

“So what?”

“So I want to know what all this is about. Where Creech comes in. What part you have in it all. And don’t tell me that you’re just a messenger. That worked once, but it won’t work again. Give, girl, or look for another pilot!”

“He’ll kill you,” she said emotionlessly. “If you back out now Creech will have you gunned down.”

“Maybe.” Durgan was grim. “He can try—but if he doesn’t make it the first time, he’ll never get a second chance. And you’ll still need a pilot.” The music changed, the thrumming beat of rock smoothing into the strumming melody of cadenza, achingly poignant with the thin wail of pipes, the repetitious beat of drums. On the far side of the dome, a woman began to shiver in sympathetic response.

Sheila drank the last of her coffee. “Would you really back out, Brad?”

“Quit playing!” He was getting angry, his own nervous responses reacting to the emotional throb of the music. “I’m not a kid to be fed on promises of candy. What is this deal, anyway? Straight salvage—or a straight steal?”

He caught the expression in her eyes, the minute tightening of muscles, the cautious veil. Abruptly he was calm, his anger dissipating at the result of his probe.

“I guessed,” he said, “but I want you to say it. No one offers this kind of money for a legitimate operation. Now talk!”

“Give me a minute.” She looked at her empty cup. “I could use some more coffee.”

And time to think up a story, he thought, but made no comment. From the automat he drew two cups, pausing on the way back as the woman across the dome began to scream. She sat, quivering, eyes glazed and a thin trickle of saliva running from her mouth. Her cries were sharp discordant, unthinking. The insidious beat of the cadenza had gripped her, jarring her nervous system, warring with the regular beat of her heart.

Durgan crossed to her table, set down the cups of coffee, and slapped her sharply across the cheek.

“What—” The screaming died as she sat, blinking, one hand rising to the place he had struck. “What’s the matter?”

“It got you,” he explained. “The music. Either move or break the circle. Think of something pleasant, talk to someone, look outside.”

Her eyes measured his height, the planes of his face, registered an unmistakable invitation.

“Talk, you said. With you?”

“Not me.” He picked up the cups. “I’m busy.”

Sheila looked at him as he sat down, her eyes moving from his face to the woman. “A hell of a way to snap her out of it. Aren’t you ever gentle?”

“When I’ve got the time, yes. Now I haven’t got the time. You were going to tell me something. Let’s get on with it.”

She toyed with her cup, very beautiful, very alluring, her femininity enhanced by the colored shadows, the primitive impact of the music. Twice he caught the movement of her eyes, the subtle hesitation, then she made her decision.

“I’ll give you the truth, Brad, and it is the truth no matter what else you might hear. The ship was carrying a cargo from the United Combines. It was a year’s production of shedeena crystals. I shouldn’t have to tell you what they are.”

“I know.”

Callisto was unique in its core-formation. The crystals, some said, were the result of divergent pressures existing way back when the solar system was first created. Others tended to think that Callisto might be a stellar wanderer caught in Jupiter’s gravity well—but none of that really mattered. Callisto was the only source of the crystals. And the crystals had a unique property.

She continued, “The various companies holding crystal franchises are forced to work together and pool their harvest. In all other matters they work as separate units, but not in this. You can guess why.”

“A price ring,” said Durgan thickly. “More. The only way in which they can avoid mutual warfare. A year’s production, you say?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at his hand. It was trembling a little, the coffee in the cup he was holding shimmering as it caught the light from above. A year’s supply! Why they had allowed it to accumulate didn’t matter. To force up the price, to ensure security, to gather a full working load—none of it mattered. All that was important was that the shedeena crystals were an anti-agathic, an anti-death drug which enabled the old, the rich, the influential to gain renewed youth and extended virility. Immortality, perhaps, if the supply could be maintained.

A year’s supply!

Its value was incalculable. How much is life worth to a rich and dying man? What concessions would a ruler grant to the one who could deliver the source of longevity?

“Sometimes it happens,” said Sheila quietly. “A combination of events that opens the door to everything you’ve ever dreamed about. I saw my chance and took it. When the ship was hit, everyone seemed to go crazy. I was monitoring the flight and operating the computer. I kept track of the fall until the information ceased coming in—and then I made a couple of alterations. The information the combines have is useless. Only I have the true position of the wreck.”

“And Creech?”

“The money-man, the fixer, the one who figured out what to do. He’s clever, Brad. He waited just long enough to make sure that I was telling the truth, and then he acted. Then—”

Durgan was sharp. “How?”

“How what?”

“How did he know that you were telling the truth?” He answered his own question. “When they didn’t find the cargo, naturally. There must have been attempts at salvage. The combines wouldn’t leave that stuff lying about without trying to get it. How many attempts?”

“Five.”

“And?”

“Five failures. Three ships just disappeared. One aborted the mission when the crew lost their nerve. The other imploded two-thirds of the way down.” She hesitated, then added, “All were using Nanset’s force field.”

“Which means it doesn’t work,” said Durgan. “Good news.”

“It does work. At least he says it does, and he’s willing to risk his neck on it. According to him, the other engineers didn’t know how to adjust the compensating factor. He could be right. Everything was done in such a hurry that something could have been unchecked. And the pilots weren’t as experienced as they might have been.”

Hurry, he thought, and fear, and the desire for secrecy. Bucket boat riders might have done the job, but they were all under contract aside from those no longer fit. And no bucket rider in his right mind would have agreed to take a ship down so far.

* * * *

Nanset said, “This really isn’t necessary, Durgan. I can assure you that the field will give us ample protection.”

“I like protection,” said Durgan. “As much of it as I can get. That’s why we’re going to wear the suits from the beginning.” His voice echoed in his ears, and he remembered there was no need to project his words. The radio would do that.

“Engineers,” said Pendris sourly. “Give me a field man every time.”

“How the hell do you think we’re going to move down there without the suits? Or did you figure we could get them on just before we land?”

“All right, I’ll accept that, but why the increased pressure in the cabin? Surely we could wear the suits and leave the face-plates open?”

Durgan checked his instruments before replying. The ship handled well despite the alterations but, in space, that told little. The test would come when they hit the atmosphere and began to fight the winds.

“Protection,” he said flatly. “Our internal pressure is as high as the fabric will take. We’ll equalize it a few miles down, but it will give us an advantage. Now shut up and let me get on with the job.”

It had been the same in the old days. The voice of the monitor had been a source of irritation, a scratching at his concentration best ignored if he was to put all he had into the dangerous business ahead. Then he had ridden alone without others to keep informed. Now he was not alone but all else was the same. The darkness of star-shot space, the transmitted thrum of the tubes, the mounting tension as the great ball of Jupiter swam closer and closer until it filled both mind and vision.

“Monitor to ship. You are three degrees off course.”

Sheila, riding with Creech in an attendant vessel, checking his flight with her stolen data, hoping to guide him through a screaming hell of frozen gases and hit a minute bullseye far below.

Durgan acknowledged and returned to his concentration. At first it wouldn’t be too bad, a slowing, a tendency to veer and twist, a mounting whine from beyond the hull. Then he would match speeds and begin to fall. The whine would increase, the shuddering fight as winds tore at the vessel and negated the controls. To fight them was useless. The trick was to use them, to ride the streaming currents, using vanes and jets to maintain some measure of control. If he lost it, the ship would spin, flung by mighty forces and turning end over end to be torn apart in shattered ruin.

He heard the sharp intake of breath as the winds caught them, sensed the tension of Nanset and Pendris as they gripped their couches. Strapped down, they were relatively safe, but he could understand their fear. The screens pictured a seething fog of fuming nightmare, the external friction a nerve-tearing whine.

It lessened a little as he matched velocities, ignoring the voice from his radio, knowing that he was off-course but knowing that he could do nothing about it for the moment. Durgan checked his instruments, the big red hand of the external pressure gauge centered in the panel, handling the ship automatically with the skill of hard-won experience.

“Prepare for first pressure-adjustment,” he said to Pendris.

“System ready.”

“Seal first compartment at double interior pressure.”

As they descended, the compartments between the hulls would be filled and sealed with gases of increasing pressure, each helping to bolster the metal skins against that outside. With four extra hulls and a highly pressurized cabin, they would be able to withstand six times the pressure of a single hull.

Six times…a wide margin, but enough?

Durgan grunted as he rode the winds. Already he was down further than he had ever been before, and now the ship seemed sluggish, the exterior density robbing it of easy manoeuvrability. And the old fear was growing. The knowledge that pressure mounted the lower he went until it would reach a million atmospheres.

“You are widely off-course.” Sheila’s voice reflected her strain. “Correct seven degrees north.”

Durgan made the adjustment.

“Final compartment sealed.” Pendris dropped his hands from the bank of controls before which he lay. “Now it’s up to Nanset.” He grunted as something rose beneath them and sent the ship into wild gyrations. “Durgan!”

He made no answer, hands dancing on the controls, jets of fire streaming from the tubes as he judged time and pressure. It was a thing impossible to teach and learned only by doing. The instinctive reaction of a trained pilot, a man who was almost a flesh-and-blood extension of his vessel.

As the ship settled, he snapped to Nanset: “Activate your shield.”

A faint blue shimmer spread throughout the cabin and vanished as it raced for the outer hull. A generator moaned as it took the strain, the note rising as the engineer made an adjustment.

“Field adjusted and operating at optimum level.” Nanset’s voice was confident. “Now we’ve nothing to worry about. The field is established on the fringe molecules and will take all this planet can give it. It’s a form of stasis,” he explained. “An energy-concept linked to the center of the generator. The higher the pressure, the more power will automatically be fed into the field and, in a sense, the pressure is fighting itself. The function can best be expressed by he mathematical formula—”

“Forget it,” said Pendris impatiently. “This is no time for a lecture. Just so long as it works I’ll be satisfied. How much longer, Durgan, before we find the jackpot?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Quit bothering me.”

Pendris inhaled with a spiteful hiss. Thickly he said, “I’m in this too, or have you forgotten?”

Durgan made no answer.

“Listen, you—”

“Shut your mouth!” Durgan snarled, as he felt the ship twist and begin to spin. The last thing he wanted now was the idle chatter of fools! Sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his face as he struggled to maintain control. It stung his eyes, the raw patch on the side of his neck where the suit had chafed. Like a wild animal, the vessel fought his control. Something struck against the hull with a dull reverberation. Fog plumed in the screens, parting to show frothing masses of vapor, uniting in coiling tendrils.

Nanset made a choking sound. “God!”

Something rose before them, tall, white, jagged with broken peaks. The engines roared as Durgan fed extra power into the jets, the ship tilting as he lifted the nose. For a moment they seemed to hang stationary, and then the massed ice threw itself towards them, dropping as they climbed, exploding into raging steam at the touch of their blast.

And, suddenly, the vapor lifted, seeming to jerk upwards in a lowering bank of cloud beneath which they flew with flaring jets and clear vision.

“We’ve done it!” said Pendris. “By God, we’ve done it!”

Below them lay the solid mass of Jupiter.

* * * *

It was a place of nightmare, the ebon darkness ripped by the ruby light of widespread volcanic activity, the crimson glow fanning out in feathered plumes of flaming gas. The scene brightened as Durgan adjusted the screens, utilizing the lower wavelengths of light, electronic magic converting them into the visible spectrum. Now they could see raging pools of liquid ammonia whipped into a frenzy by the tidal waves stemming from the spouting craters. The pools, small on Jupiter but large enough for seas on Earth, stretched between mountain chains of solid ice, blue and green and somber umber, shining with red and orange light from the burning gases. The glare of their own blast illuminated the landscape and caused long trails of incandescent vapor to writhe like serpents, green and yellow and brilliant red, twisting and coiling in enigmatic patterns.

“The heat is breaking down the elements,” said Nanset quietly. “Cracking compounds locked for millions of years in frigid stasis. That’s oxygen burning, and hydrogen and methane. Who knows what elements and how they will act down here?’

“Heat?” Pendris snorted his disgust. “What about all those volcanoes? The heat of our blast is nothing to them.”

“Heat is relative. On Earth those volcanoes would be nothing. They wouldn’t even get started. That stuff isn’t water, remember, but liquid ammonia. Those mountains are of ice. The lower atmosphere must be a mixture of hydrogen, ammonia, methane, and carbon tetrahydride. Interesting.”

“Check your field,” said Durgan sharply. “You’ve no time to gawk at the scenery. Pendris, get busy on the detector.”

Creech had given them the instrument. A box fitted with dials, which, he claimed, would register the presence of the cargo. If they could get close enough. If it would work in the conditions existing under the clouds. If the cargo was still as it had been.

Durgan spoke into the radio.

“Sheila. We’ve reached bottom. Check my position.”

“You moved off course. You should have stayed on it.”

“A mountain got in the way. We—”

“Brad!” Her voice was strained. “Are you all right?”

“So far, yes. Now quit being polite and get on with the job. Direct me please. Direct!”

He fell silent as her professional drone came over the speaker, a string of co-ordinates, corrections, alterations. The ship thrummed as it moved in a wide circle, slowing as it met the head-on force of the wind, which moved at a constant velocity over the ground, bucking as it met it side-on.

Pendris sucked in his breath.

“Anything?”

“I’m not sure, Dugan. The needles kicked a bit. Can you go back over?”

“I’m spiraling. Keep a sharp watch and yell if you see anything. Nanset!”

“Yes?”

“How is the field holding out?”

“Fine.” The engineer had lacked conviction. He enlarged the comment at Durgan’s insistence. “We dropped a fraction back there. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Maybe the atmosphere is corroding the outer hull and thus building up resistance. I’ve made the necessary adjustments.”

“The hull is corrosion-proof,” said Pendris. “Stop making excuses and keep your attention on your machine. Right, Durgan?”

“That’s good advice—why don’t you follow it?”

“I’m doing just that.” His voice was ugly. “But when we get out of here, you and me are going to have a little talk in a dark alley. I don’t go for snotty pilots.”

Sheila spoke before Durgan could answer. “Have you located it yet, Brad?”

“No.”

“What’s keeping you?”

“Are you joking? It’s a mess down here. We could be lucky and hit it right away, or we could search for a hundred years. Is Creech riding you?”

“Well, he—”

“Tell him to get lost. Have you any more data I can use? No? Then quit babbling and let me get on with the job.”

It was hard to talk with more than two gravities tearing at the muscles, making every movement an exercise in applied strength, and he was beginning to feel the strain. The suits helped, but that help had to be paid for in sore places, a body slimed with perspiration, itches which couldn’t be scratched, aches which couldn’t be relieved. And it was impossible to forget the pressure outside, the giant hand which would crush him into a smear should something go wrong.

Durgan adjusted the controls, tightening the spiral pattern he had chosen, thinking of a falling ship and the variable forces that would play on it. A last-second shift of wind and it would have been carried miles from the anticipated crash-point. An abrupt loss of mass, the same. Yet the girl had been adamant as to its location.

He examined the screens, trying to catch a glimpse of twisted metal, the lines of something artificial and alien to the landscape below. He saw nothing but the fury of volcanic activity, the shimmer of disturbed seas, the red glow painted on curtains of glistening ice.

“There!” Pendris’s voice was high with excitement. “We’ve just passed it. The needles damn near left the dials!”

The vessel shuddered as Durgan cut acceleration and turned to face back from where they had come.

“There!” said Pendris again. “There!”

A torrent of lava fell from the crest of a high ridge, falling into a pool sparkling with flecks of dying brilliance. To one side, almost hidden by a crusted mass of deposited crystals, a sheared plate of twisted metal shone in the ruby light.

The wreck of the Archimedes.

* * * *

They found the cargo container a mile away, lying in a patch of luminous snow, a thin green haze blurring fine detail. Incredibly, it was still almost intact, the thick metal buckled and warped, torn in several places, those openings having prevented crushing implosion. Deftly Durgan steered the ship towards it, his hands delicate on the controls as he fed power to the jets, the outer hull slithering over the frozen surface.

“How’s that, Pendris? Close enough?”

Pendris grunted. He sat upright, his helmet enclosed by an enfolding mask, both hands thrust deep into the gloves of the waldo attachments.

“Can you get it a bit closer?”

Power thrummed as the ship edged forward. Nanset looked up from his dials.

“We shouldn’t make actual contact,” he said. “The field is becoming unbalanced, the energies grounding from the area of contact.”

“Can you compensate?”

“I’m trying. For a time, yes, I think I can manage it. But be quick.”

Pendris grunted again. “Quick? The damned thing’s covered with scrap. I’ll have to cut it free before we can hope to fasten the grapnels.”

“Then get on with it!” Durgan was sharp, worried, on edge now that he had nothing to do. Now they had arrived, Pendris was the main factor. “Don’t waste time flapping your mouth!”

“I’ll get you!” said Pendris. “When we get out of here, I swear that I’ll get you!”

“Any time you fancy!” Durgan drew a shuddering breath. “Now get busy earning your pay!”

On the screen, he could see the waldo attachments unfold from their housings, literal extensions of Pendris’s hands and arms, stretching, reaching, bright fire blazing as lasers cut through jagged pieces of metal. From the operator’s mask, Pendris’s voice came as a musing drone.

“Tough. The damned thing is built like a safe. Solid metal strapped and reinforced like the vault of a bank. Lucky for us in a way, that’s why it stayed in one piece, but what the hell would they be carrying to take such precautions?”

The lasers died, were replaced by mechanical claws that ripped the tattered remains from the bulk of the container. A hook caught in one of the openings, pulled, dropped free as it made no impression. Again Pendris tried to turn the container, to shift it from its bed. A third failure and he swore in savage irritation.

“It’s too heavy! Those walls must be six inches thick! Why the hell didn’t Creech warn us?”

“Maybe he didn’t know.” Durgan leaned closer to the screen. As the container was situated, it was impossible to weld grapnels and hope to lift it from the planet. The strain would be too great. “Maybe I can use the ship to turn it. Lift your waldos and I’ll try.”

Nanset warned, “I’m getting close to maximum output.”

“Keep a five percent safety margin,” said Durgan “When you reach it, let me know.”

As the waldos lifted from the container, he fed power to the jets, inching forward, using the bulk of the vessel to ram against the container. For a moment it resisted, then suddenly gave. Durgan edged back and turned from the controls.

“All right, Pendris Try again.”

Once more the mechanical attachments clawed at the misshapen bulk. Pendris’s drone was a mutter of rising frustration.

“It’s no good. The thing is too damaged and too heavy. Maybe if I cut away the metal it might be possible to weld some grapnels to the interior.”

Durgan said, “Can’t you fix holding straps around the outside?”

“No. I can’t manipulate it. If we try hooking direct to the box, its own weight will tear it free before we’ve lifted a dozen miles. The entire thing is busted all to hell.”

The hooks lifted and were replaced by the lasers. Sparks flew and molten droplets ran from yielding metal as the torches cut into the thick walls of the container. Pendris was an expert at his job. The searing beams answered to his expert manipulation, cutting just deep enough, flaring at carefully determined angles, dying before they could burn the interior. Again the hooks swung down, gripped lifted and tore the top of the box completely free.

From the interior of the container rose a cloud of vivid green vapor.

It spread, pluming, fanning as it rose, clinging to the waldo attachments, condensing into a nimbus of darkening emerald.

Pendris swore in sudden anger.

“What the hell? The damn waldos don’t respond!”

The gas lifted again, thinning, coiling as it hovered over the opened container. It hung for a moment like a cloud and then moved again to settle beside the vessel.

“A chemical reaction,” said Nanset. “It has to be. The heat of the lasers triggered off a progressive interaction probably converting crystals into gases and ending with a stable compound.”

“Nice,” sneered Pendris. His hands worked for a moment within the gloves then he turned from the mask, his face sweating behind the face-plate of his helmet. “And what of the attachments?”

“They are activated by a series of interacting magnetic fields. It is possible that the gas has somehow neutralized the components.” The engineer spoke as if he were addressing a classroom of students. “The thing is theoretically possible. An energized gas can be artificially generated down here. With the extreme pressure and alien chemistry, it could happen naturally.”

Durgan didn’t join the discussion. He looked at the screens, at the exposed interior of the cargo container The thing had been built to withstand any conceivable emergency. The exterior walls were merely the outer casing. Within, suspended on a mesh of springs and insulating baffles, hung a smaller box. Distorted, torn, but still in one piece. Inside would rest the shedeena crystals.

The largest fortune a man could hope to gain. Within sight. Within reach, almost, but with the waldos inoperative there was only one way it could be secured. This force field,” said Durgan thickly. “Can it be applied to a suit?”

* * * *

It was a gambler’s throw with a fortune as the prize and a life as the stake, and only a trickle of current providing the chance of success. If it should falter, the potential fail, a wire break—then death would be instantaneous.

Durgan tried not to think about it. He moved his left leg, the power-units of the suit accentuating his motion, enhancing his muscular power so that the limb moved, the foot lifted, fell with abrupt savageness beneath the clawing drag of a gravity which more than doubled his weight.

Beneath his boots the surface was rough, scored by the winds which tore past in a droning whine, pushing with savage intent.

Stooped over the cargo container, Pendris lifted a wrapped slug of the precious crystals, using both hands, turning so as to allow Durgan to grip it with his left hand, pass it to where Nanset stood before the ship’s open doors.

Light streamed from the interior, a warm, comforting glow, throwing distorted shadows over the eerie configurations of the Jovian landscape. More shadows moved as, far to one side, a gust of ruby flame stabbed through the darkness. Closer, from where the ruby stream fell from the crest to the pool of bubbling crimson, a dull glow shone, reflecting from the hull of the vessel, painting it with the uneasy color of blood.

Pendris’s voice was harsh in the confines of the helmet.

“Awkward,” he muttered. “I’ve got to stoop right over. Some of the wrappings are torn and there’s more of that damned green gas.”

A ball of it rose with him as he painfully straightened, clinging to the end of a slug, rising to wreath his suited arms. Mechanically Durgan took it, turned, passed it to Nanset. In a glowing pool at the side of the ship, the green vapor that had streamed from the opened container rested like a smoky cloud of emerald. It seemed unaffected by the wind, streamers reaching to both ship and ground as if it clung with deliberate intent.

“Hurry,” said Nanset. “I can’t trust the generator to compensate on automatic for too long. Hurry!”

His voice shook a little, and Durgan could understand his fear. He felt it himself. The unimaginable tons of pressure all around, the crushing force held back only by the magic of the force field. It revealed itself as a blue shimmer around the suits so that each man moved in a halo of nebulous light.

“Here!” Pendris held out yet another slug. “The damned stuff’s getting harder to reach. It’s padded all to hell.” His breath sucked between his lips. “Money,” he breathed. “A mansion on the Himalayas. Another at Polar North. Fine foods, women, the best of wine. My own ship, maybe!”

The lure that made them agree to take the insane gamble. Durgan had told them what the container held, dangling the bait of incredible wealth before their eyes, forcing the engineer to adapt his field to guard the suits. What did Nanset want, he wondered. A school of his own? A complete laboratory with money enough to staff it with the best brains available? A converted ship to plumb the secrets of Uranus?

Mechanically, he passed on the slug.

The wind gusted, suddenly slamming with increased force against the ship, the men, the open container of the precious crystals. The ground shook a little, a low rumble echoing through the helmets as the suits carried the grinding vibrations. Orange flame lifted to one side, interspersed with shafts of vivid blue, and the droning wind carried specks of dancing green. They swirled like snowflakes, like scraps of wispy cloud, meeting, uniting, growing into streamers of coiling vapor which clung to the suited figures, fogging the face-plates with emerald dazzle, passing to hang like gossamer from the ship and container.

Nanset’s voice was a ragged whisper. “I don’t like this. There’s something strange down here, something terrifying. I get the impression that something is watching us.”

“Shut up!” snapped Durgan. “There’s nothing down here but gas and pressure.”

“There could be life,” insisted the engineer. “How do we know there isn’t? The temperature is high enough for an ammonia-based metabolism. I—”

“Shut up and keep working!” Pendris snarled with impatience, fear edging his words. “Time for thinking is when we get out of here. Now move! Damn you, move!”

A blue ghost, he lifted another slug, passed it to Durgan, who took it and handed it to the engineer. Nanset was clumsy. He stumbled and the slug fell from his hands into the pool of green vapor that clung stubbornly to the side of the vessel. He stopped to recover it, his hands plunging into the enigmatic mist. And vanished.

He disappeared like the flame of a blown-out candle. One second he was a blue-lined figure stooping, his arms wreathed with green. And then, instantly, there was nothing.

Nothing but a metallic smear edge with red, a paste of flesh and blood and bone, an ooze of organic and inorganic compounds from which trailed the wire which had fed his force field.

“God!” Pendris’s voice echoed his terror. “What happened?”

“His field collapsed.” Durgan fought his rising terror as he stood, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe for fear that any movement, no matter how slight, would send him after the engineer.

“His field—we’ve got to get out of here!”

Pendris turned from where he stood and began to move towards the open port of the vessel. Over the radio, his breathing was harsh, ragged, the sound of a man on the edge of panic. Durgan caught his arm as he drew level.

“Wait!”

“Let me go! For God’s sake, man! Let’s get out of here!”

“Watch your feet! Break the wire and you’ll die. Move carefully. If you fall, who knows what might happen?” Durgan swallowed, hating the dryness of his mouth, the fear that sent sweat oozing from every pore. “Be careful, damn you! For God’s sake, go easy!”

Carefully he edged towards the open port, moving in inches, dying a hundred deaths at each tiny step. Always there had been the danger, but now it had become horribly real. He had seen what the pressure could do, had actually seen it. Nanset had died before his very eyes!

He reached the edge of the port, climbed in, moved through the air lock and into the cabin. With exaggerated care, he moved to the pilot’s couch and called soft orders.

“Make sure that both wires are well within the cabin. Right?”

“Right.”

“Then hit your couch. Fasten restraints. Right?”

Again Pendris said, “Right.”

Durgan moved his hands. The outer door swung shut, sealing the hull. The inner door followed to seal the cabin. The engines woke to life, the roar of power drumming with heavy vibrations through the vessel. On the screen, the blast looked like a sword of impossibly brilliant flame.

Praying, his mouth filled with the taste of blood from his bitten lips, Durgan sent the ship streaking upwards from the Jovian terrain.

* * * *

“Sheila to Brad. Come in Brad. Sheila to Brad. Come in Brad. Answer please. Answer, damn you! Sheila to Brad.”

“Are you going to answer?” Pendris had caught the voice over the intersuit radio. His own was suggestive. “You don’t have to. For all they know we died down there with Nanset.”

“Watch your pressures!” Durgan concentrated on the instruments, the red hand of the gauge. He had relaxed a little now that they had risen well into the atmosphere, passing the danger point, the engines thrusting them even higher towards the empty cleanliness of space.

“Pressure compensated.” Pendris operated his valves. “We won’t explode. We can cut the field now and maybe get out of these damned suits.”

“Not yet.”

“Hell, why not? We’re high enough for the hull to take normal pressure. “We’ve got solid oxygen in the tanks and all we need do is warm it and clear the cabin of accumulated gas. I’m sore,” he complained. “And I itch like the devil. That ride up wasn’t easy.”

He hadn’t known the half of it, his inexperience saving him from the worst. A man couldn’t fear what he didn’t know, but Durgan had known all too well. He had ridden on his nerves, eyes strained as they checked the instruments, imagination cringing as he visualized what could so easily happen. A flaw, a single fragment of metal crystallizing beneath the pressure and vibration, anything and they would have joined the engineer in instantaneous extinction.

Now he rode the winds like an artificial bird, rising higher with each passing second, his relief an intoxication.

“Sheila to Brad. Come in Brad. For God’s sake answer, damn you! Sheila to Brad. Come in Brad.”

“They’re hungry,” said Pendris. “Eager for the loot.” His voice carried his disgust. “A lousy five million. That’s all they wanted to pay for the price of a world. To hell with them!”

The ship bucked a little. Durgan steadied it and said, “You’ve got ideas?”

“Maybe.” Pendris was cautious. “You going to clear the cabin? Give us some clear air to breathe?”

Durgan reached out and threw a couple of switches.

Heating coils would vaporise the stored blocks of solid oxygen. He would flush the cabin when the pressure grew high enough and when they had reached near-space. Then more blocks would provide a breathable atmosphere.

“Give it some time,” he said. “These ideas of yours—what have you in mind?”

“You need me to spell it out? Hell, Durgan, you’re no fool, you can recognize the big time when you see it.” Pendris was eager. “That stuff we collected is worth how much? Sold legitimate, a real bundle—and sold under the counter, a damn sight more. The combines alone would give us more than what Creech promised. And how do you know that he’ll delíver? We’ve done the job, and he won’t need us any more. A couple of shots and he’s saved a bundle. The girl, too—she won’t be needed, either. We do the dirty work and Creeeh gets all the reward.”

“We made a deal,” said Durgan flatly.

“Sure we did—and it was completed when the waldos failed. From then on we were working for ourselves. Why else do you think we agreed to take that kind of a risk? You didn’t spell it out, Durgan, but you didn’t have to. The stuff’s ours any way you want to look at it. We sweated for it, and Nanset died getting it. I don’t figure on letting it go.”

“No,” said Durgan. “I didn’t think you would.”

A lamp flashed on the panel. There was the thin whine of escaping air. On the screens, the clouds suddenly thinned to wisps of vapor, fell as the ship continued to climb, merged with the misty ball of Jupiter. On a close orbit, the ship swung over the mighty planet, building velocity so as to spiral from the savage tug of the gravity well.

“We’ll be able to breathe soon,” said Pendris. “Real air instead of this regenerated stink. What do you say, Durgan?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“What’s there to think about? We’ve got our hands on the jackpot, and all we need to do is to hang on to it. Creech? He can be taken care of. The girl? She’s yours if you want her. I’ve a couple of contacts who can handle the sale and pay cash on the nail.”

The lamp flashed again, and a needle rose on a dial. Pendris grunted and lifted his hands to his face-plate. A gush of vapor came from within the suit as it opened, air heated by his own body-temperature, loaded with the moisture from his sweat.

Painfully he released the couch-restraints and swung his legs to the floor of the cabin. Moving awkwardly, he began to divest himself of the cumbersome suit.

“I can’t manage,” he said. “Durgan, help me get out of this thing and I’ll do the same for you.”

Durgan turned. Pendris looked a wreck. Blood seeped from raw patches on his hands and wrists, more from the side of his jaw. His face was red, lined with strain and fatigue, his eyes blood-shot, red-rimmed and angry.

Durgan was in no better condition. He felt gritty and knew he stank. He needed a long, hot bath, a massage and about twenty hours sleep.

He flipped the catches on Pendris’s suit, then returned to the controls. Pendris moved to the back of the cabin where the salvaged cargo was stored. The man was clearly excited, eager to see what they had won.

“What do you think, Durgan? Should we rendezvous with Creech and take care of him? We could use his ship, and he has the girl. Or maybe it would be better to let them both think we died trying.” He laughed, a hoarse chuckle rasping from his sore lips. “Died! We damn near did at that. But it was worth it. Man! How it was worth it! When I think of all the things this stuff can buy—” His voice broke. “Durgan!”

“What is it?”

“Durgan! Look! What the hell—”

And then he screamed.

It was a harsh cry of an animal in both fear and pain. Durgan spun from the controls, the hairs prickling at the base of his neck, nerves tense for unexpected dangers.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Pendris didn’t answer. He stood beside the pile of slugs reclaimed from the wrecked vessel, the compact bulk of shedeena crystals, staring with bulging eyes. Over the heaped pile, glowing in the cabin lights, a green vapor clung like a thin liquid, coiling, pulsing with a strange energy, rising in tenuous streams. More of the green vapor clung to his hands, puffy balls of brilliant emerald, clotted and writhing as it crawled up his arms.

“It burned,” he whispered. “It stung like acid. I touched the slugs and it felt like fire. Durgan! Help me!”

“Step back! Away from the cargo! Stand back against the far bulkhead! Move, damn you! Move!”

Durgan reached back, his right hand diving beneath the instrument console, reappearing with the weight of a gun firmly clutched in his fingers.

“Insurance,” he said. “I’m not such a fool as to trust others. I planted it when I examined the ship. If you or Creech had any bright ideas about cutting me out I intended to be ready.” The muzzle of the weapon rose as Pendris made to step forward. “Stay where you are.”

“You think I’m joking?” Pendris lifted his arms, balls of green fluffing like balls of emerald cotton, expanding as they climbed higher up his arms. “I tell you, this stuff felt like acid.”

“Try wiping the stuff off. Use one hand against the other.” Durgan frowned as Pendris obeyed. “Jerk your arms. If it’s a gas, it should blow free.”

It wasn’t a gas, or if it was, it was like none he had ever seen before. No matter how Pendris thrashed his arms, the vapor clung, clots of it catching his legs, his body. From the heap of slugs, more gas rose to join that attached to the man. Within moments, Pendris was covered in a green film that seemed to close around him, thickening, pulsing as with inner life.

“Durgan!” He stepped forward, stumbling, hands extended. “Durgan, help me!”

“Keep back!” Sweat beaded Durgan’s face as he lifted his pistol. “Right back. Quick or I’ll burn you apart!”

“You’d kill me?”

“If I have to, yes.”

“You—”

“Save it,” said Durgan sharply. “This is a tough life, Pendris, you’ve no cause to whine. How do you feel now?”

“I don’t know. Just numb and weak.” Pendris lifted his hands and pawed at his face. His voice was thin, cracked. “It’s hard to breathe. For God’s sake, do something!”

He lowered his hands and stood, swaying, tendrils of green vapor clinging tight to his body.

And, as Durgan watched, he aged.

He shriveled like a long-inflated balloon suddenly relieved of pressure. His face collapsed, prominent bone thrusting against skin that had grown sere and withered. His body stooped, his hands shrank to bony claws, a naked skull shone through thinning hair. His eyes glared from deep within shadowed sockets, lips parting to show toothless gums. He stumbled forward, one step, then crumpled to the deck to lie like a heap of discarded clothing.

“Durgan!” His voice was a piping whisper. “Help me, Durgan! Help me!”

The hair vanished, the skin, the flesh beneath. Naked bone hung from the ends of the sleeves, the neck of the blouse. In the open sockets of the eyes, green vapor rose in delicate plumes.

Durgan fired, jamming his finger hard against the trigger, sending blasts of incinerating flame lancing across the cabin to where the skeleton lay. It flared, smoldered, burst into flame and smoke.

Durgan lowered the weapon. Behind him, the control panel flashed with signal lights as automatie fans whined into life, clearing the smoke.

Over the assembled stacks of reclaimed slugs, the emerald vapor rose until it reached the roof, recoiled, then rose again, clinging, surging over the metal as if it were a leech.

From the radio came the insistent voice. “Brad, come in please. Sheila to Brad. Brad, please answer.”

Durgan ignored it, watching the advance of the alien gas, remembering where he had seen it before.

On Jupiter, the strange cloud which had streamed from the opened cargo container and which had settled beside the ship, remaining despite the wind which would have blown away any normal accumulation of gas. Nanset had touched it, reaching into it with both arms as he tried to recover the dropped slug, and Nanset had died. Pendris had touched it—and now Pendris was dead.

Life, thought Durgan. Alien. Spawned in the chemical brew that was the atmosphere of Jupiter. Or perhaps the cargo itself had provided the stimulus, the concentrated life-force which the shedeena crystals provided. Or perhaps the strange thing had merely been attracted to the source of so much life-giving energy. It didn’t matter.

It must have come aboard as they entered the cabin, unnoticed, drawn perhaps by the lure of the collected slugs. The release of pressure could have stimulated it, the flood of oxygen speeding its metabolism. It was a life-feeder and hungry. It would always be hungry. It would destroy every living thing it touched, sucking the life-force as if it were a sponge, compressing a lifetime of normal living into moments. It had to be destroyed.

He fired again, spraying the cabin with searing flame, blasting the gas, the pile of slugs, the roof and deck and bulkhead. Metal glowed with red heat and the air grew stifling. But, when the gun was empty, the gas remained.

Thicker, the cloud; larger, the green more intense. It lapped against the walls and billowed towards the control panel, the couches, to the place where Durgan stood. More avid now that it had fed, eager for fresh life, new life-force, added fuel so that it could grow and expand to—

To cover a world if it were released on a planet. To hang waiting in space if he released it into the void. Hanging and drifting to, perhaps, be caught in a gravity well and be drawn down to Callisto or Ganymede, to maybe even reach Earth in time. A sea of emerald vapor to replace the blue seas, the white clouds, the rich brown of fertile soil.

“Brad!” Sheila’s voice was ragged with strain. “For God’s sake come in, Brad! Come in!”

Come in to warmth and safety, to luxury and the comforting softness of a woman’s arms. And then he saw her, tall and lovely, her hair a golden curtain to her rounded shoulders, a green vapor touching, clinging, sucking away her youth, her beauty, her very life.

He looked down at his hand. On the back a spot of green swelled as he watched, spreading with a touch of fire, the pain instantly dying as the nerves were killed, the skin numbed and rendered senseless. A parasite, insidious, beautiful in a way but still a parasite. A freak of life which, with luck, would never be repeated.

The ship drummed as he sat before the controls and adjusted the power. In the screens the swollen ball of Jupiter rose as he dived towards it, the tenuous masses of upper-cloud ripped and torn by the savage winds. They closed around the vessel, whipping, streaming, the sound of their passing a droning thunder against the hull.

He would not hear them for long. Nor would he feel the sudden implosion which would send the ship and what it contained down to where it belonged.

The Red Spot made a wonderful target.