Phantom Duel
Date: 2022-02-13T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Adventure stories

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Phantom Duel

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Title: Phantom Duel

Author: Ford McCormack

Illustrator: Emmanuel Stallman

Release date: February 13, 2022 [eBook #67392]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Royal Publications, Inc, 1955

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHANTOM DUEL ***

PHANTOM DUEL

By FORD McCORMACK

Illustrated by STALLMAN

Farian jade was the most precious
jewel in history—and the most deadly!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, November 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Will Archer idly poked one of the array of keys which studded the wings of his control chair. The pattern of stars which sprayed into a twelve-foot black bowl from a knobbed projector above his head winked out and was promptly replaced by the rounding, yellow-green bulk of Vega VII, less than two diameters away.

He was not sorry that its image was receding steadily. Faria, as it was called in the Vega system, was about the size of Earth and its atmosphere was tolerable to humans—there the resemblance all but ended. For its weather was insufferably hot, its topography fantastically tortuous, and its life-forms, both animal and vegetable—and yes, mineral!—were of a general aspect that only a biologist could gaze on with fondness.

In order to do so, a whole group of kindred scientists had come all the way from far Earth six months before, and had chartered a ship at the interstellar base on Vega IX.

They had also required an experienced and reliable "local" crew. The pay had been good, and Will Archer was looking forward to spending most of it quickly and freely on Vega IX.

He released the key and the screen automatically reoriented itself to primary position—on course. The stars showing before him were actually almost directly above his head, allowing for "yaw" due to offset angular acceleration.

Eighty hours to reversal. A hundred more of "descent" to Vega IX. Will Archer shrugged. Eight days between him and the fanciest fleshpots in the system. With a little more squirt—say about one-point-six G, which anybody but a cardiac case could easily stand—they could cut the trip in half, and sit down with juice to spare. But the freak-chasers loved comfort, and with all those specimens to drool over, they'd probably just as soon start for Sol III on chem-drive! Well, they or their sponsors were footing the bill, so—

The concave screen suddenly flickered to fifth position, showing a 120° range of the firmament, rotated 90° clockwise, to the pilot's left. At the same time, a buzzer started droning, and a yellow light blinked on the gauge panel to his right.

Toward one side of the screen, the great disc of Vega, selectively dimmed in projection, glowed like a blue-white moon. Near the center, a twelve-inch ring of light appeared and began to move slowly to the right. Whatever the ring indicated was too small and too distant to see, but to the unaided judgment its motion bore a disturbing resemblance to a collision course.

Evidently the detector-system thought otherwise, or a red light would be flashing instead of a yellow one, an all-quarters alarm-bell would be sounding instead of a buzzer, and the controls would have operated automatically to deflect the ship by a safe margin—or to the limit of its occupants' capacity to absorb shock. Fortunately, such instances were vanishingly rare: space is incredibly roomy.

Beneath the yellow blinker, a set of clicking meters recorded the flight components of the foreign object. Its direction cosines were changing slowly in a characteristically orbital manner; the object was probably a ship approaching the planet, although its velocity was a bit high for this proximity. But that was another pilot's worry.

The ring was moving faster now, approaching the edge of the field. Just as it touched, it disappeared, and the screen flashed to first position. The ring reappeared at far left, shifted to the right with gathering speed. It swung past the center with a rush, slowed down again, and reached the far edge as the screen reoriented to third position. Very slowly now, the ring moved out from the left side of the field.

The nearest distance of the respective courses had been about 45 miles; of the ships themselves, about 70. The ring drifted on toward the center of the screen and seemed to hover there.

Will Archer looked back at the meters and shook his head. Too fast by far. And the negative acceleration was only a fraction of a G—wait a minute! He stared at the meter in question. Its reading was positive!

That meant the other ship, or whatever it might be, was approaching the planet in something resembling a free fall. A crash was not inevitable—there was plenty of time to apply sufficient lateral thrust to insure a miss—but why? Time and fuel would be wasted before a landing would become possible.

The meters stopped clicking, the buzzer became silent, and the ring disappeared from the screen, which changed back to first position. The object had passed beyond accurate range.

Will Archer frowned and pressed a key to his left. After a moment, the face of the radio operator appeared on a small video plate: "Yes?"

"Any calls from outside in the last few minutes?"

The radio operator looked surprised. "No. Why?"

"Stay on audio." The pilot pressed another key, and the buzzer began droning again. This time, it would be heard in all parts of the ship. Captain's call. After perhaps ten seconds, the broad, placid face of Captain Rogan appeared on the screen: "Will? What's the trouble?"

The captain rested his claim to respect on an amazing percentage of sound decisions, and held formality very lightly.

"Cap, a ship just crossed our course in what looked like a free fall to the planet—too fast for a landing. No signals of any kind."

Archer added nothing to the simple facts, since Captain Rogan was as well qualified to speculate about them as anyone. He knew that the Vega system harbors few, if any, meteorites of the indicated size. There is no asteroid belt; apparently there have never been more than the present twenty-three planets.

The only answer which seemed consistent with the facts was an ugly one. The object was a ship out of control—its occupants either dead or helpless.

Captain Rogan's furrowed brow indicated that he had reached the same conclusion.

"Modify thrust to hold course and cut acceleration," he said quietly. "I'll send Berry up to make the layout." The video plate blanked out.

Berry, the navigator, had turned in shortly after the fix and was probably asleep by now. Archer would need him—it was going to be tricky to plot a follow-course this close to the planet with enough leeway to match velocities. And they would have to pour it on a little, in all probability, to insure a safe margin—he wondered how the paying guests would like that. Not that it would matter to Captain Rogan—the Space Code came first.

Will Archer pressed a key, and a high-pitched gong began to sound at one-second intervals. It would warn the ship's occupants of a change in acceleration, and would continue until the change was completed.

Berry came in, walking quite steadily with the flat-footed gait of one wearing magnetic shoe-plates. He nodded sleepily, ran a hand through his tousled blond hair, and strapped his slight frame into the seat at the computing table.

"I can tell you right now," he said glumly, "it's going to be rough. At 3 G tops, it'll take five elements and seven hours, at the very least. We won't get within 50 percent of optimum."

Archer read between the lines. Berry was a confirmed pessimist, and if he specified seven hours, it meant there was a fair chance of overtaking the other ship in less.

On the trip "down," Will Archer did not mind the roller-coaster effects nearly so much as his gradual loss of orientation. It was not his first experience with incrementing a free descent, but it was by all odds his longest one. In succession, the planet was "up," "down," sideways and all over the place. Only the screen remained relatively unconfused. Certainly no planet-evolved organism could hope to match its gyroscopic single-mindedness.

Some six hours later, the planet's projection occupied virtually the whole screen. The locator ring, now in shadow for contrast, picked out the other ship, which presently became visible as a black speck somewhat above the screen's center.

It grew, and became recognizable as a small ship of not more than six-man capacity. There was now little question of its being out of control—it was dropping toward the planet at an odd angle, and its jets were dead. The question was whether there would be sufficient thrust available to divert it from the planet's atmosphere. Unless power were applied within the next hour, Archer surmised, no reasonable amount of acceleration would do the trick.

Archer grinned. The same thing applied to this ship. How would the scientists react to the choice of jettisoning some of their heavy equipment and specimens or burdening their own frames with artificial avoirdupois to the point of black-out?

The final jockeying to match velocities was a delicate and nerve-wracking task, since overshooting even once would have meant considerable loss of time. There was a tense moment as they slid abreast of the smaller ship and Archer applied the last few pounds of thrust. It was precisely enough, and the two ships floated relatively motionless, though somewhat askew. The smaller ship showed no external signs of damage, yet no light showed through any of the visible portholes.

An extending rod, blackly silhouetted against the looming planet, stretched slowly across the field and touched the smaller ship's hull. Another moved out, farther away, and then a third, forming a magnetically clinging tripod which locked the two ships together.

The buzzer sounded intermittently and a blue light flashed on Archer's left. He flipped a key, and Captain Rogan's face appeared on the video plate.

"Will, get into your suit and come to the lock. Berry will take the controls. You're to go over with Stokely and see what can be done. And—better bring your gun, just in case."

It was a notion that had already occurred to Archer, and he toyed with it further while donning his pressure-suit. People occasionally go berserk in space—its awesome immensity affects some minds that way—and a few had been fairly successful in liquidating their fellows wholesale. Among those ships which had simply disappeared forever into the void, there were probably a few such cases. Yes, it was entirely possible that there might be one living occupant of the other ship—a madman.

Stokely, the burly, pink-haired chief engineer, was dressed for space, except for his head-globe, when Archer arrived at the lock. So were two others: Evans, a soft-spoken, sharp-faced member of the crew, and a tall and graying individual whom Will recognized as Dr. Hubert Grimwood, one of the more eminent of the scientists aboard. A sizable medical kit was slung from the doctor's middle.

"I must admit, Captain," he was saying apologetically, "that while I do have a medical degree, I have never practised except—ah—incidentally."

Captain Rogan shrugged. "There's no other medical doctor aboard, as I told you. All you can do is your best."

The captain took up his position at the observation port next to the lock. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

With the others, Archer slipped on his radio headset, placed his head-globe in its rubber gasket and tightened the four clamps that held it. He cracked the compressed-air valve just enough to inflate the suit gently, and turned on the regulator unit. As he stepped into the airlock, the voice of Captain Rogan, slightly blurred in transmission, sounded in his ears:

"Stokely and Archer, being armed, will enter first. Stokely will report progress, if able—otherwise Archer, Evans, Grimwood, in that order. Please acknowledge."

The four men in the lock spoke their "Yes, sirs," in the order named, including Dr. Grimwood, whose response was nervously emphatic. He was plainly unaccustomed to activity during degravitation, but the set of his bony countenance showed his determination to go through with it.

Will Archer felt his suit stiffening as the gauge dropped toward zero, and he moved his arms and legs a little to test the ball joints. They moved freely, being precisely pivoted so that the volume of the suit remained constant regardless of position. A moment later, Stokely pulled open the outer hatch.

One of the contact rods projected from its sheath near the hatch to a point within reach of the other ship's lock. Stokely set out carefully, hand over hand, and Archer followed him, gripping the rod firmly with each hand in turn. This was no time to make a slip and go drifting off into nowhere. The pistol at his side would provide a means of getting back, but an awkward one, because one's center of gravity was difficult to judge accurately, and if the shot were not closely aligned to it, one stood an excellent chance of converting himself into a human pinwheel.

Archer waited near the hull of the other ship until Stokely drew himself out of the way, then, grasping a nearby rung, he made room for Evans and Grimwood. Stokely, though a few feet away, was in dense shadow and almost invisible, but his flashlight made a shifting oval of light on what appeared to be a pane of vitreon, and he spoke steadily:

"I'm looking through the porthole, but I can't see much. There are no lights aboard ship. Nothing seems to be out of place in the waist here, but of course I can't see the nose and tail compartments."

"How about the lock?" came Captain Rogan's voice. "Try the emergency control."

Archer could feel a slight vibration through the hull as Stokely changed his position, then spoke again:

"Seems to be in working order. The lock is evacuating. But it's going to be a squeeze for the four of us."

"Better go in two at a time. You and Archer first. And keep your suits operating, even if the air reads all right—there just might be some fancy bacteria floating around."

That was another grim possibility not unknown in space annals. Bacteria could mutate rapidly and strangely under extra-planetary conditions. On two or three occasions, "fancy" ones had nearly wiped out orbital laboratories devoted to bacteriological research.

If such were the case here, it was all the more important to see what could be done to avoid tainting the atmosphere of an inhabited planet.

In the air lock, the pressure balanced quickly with that of the interior, and the tension eased on the fabric of their suits. Stokely pushed the inner hatch open and they entered with guns drawn. The beams of their flashlights swept the chamber quickly, then more slowly.

There were only the bunks, storage lockers, air-processing equipment, and gyro-stabilizer unit to be expected amidships of such a craft. Stokely placed a hand on the stabilizer housing for a moment, then nodded. They had already judged from the ship's behavior that it must be functioning.

"Nothing out of the way here," reported Stokely in a low voice.

"Stay together, and look at the control room first," Captain Rogan ordered.

There was, of course, no central lift in a ship this size, but merely narrow ladders between the compartments. These were necessary only under the pull of gravity or acceleration, and under the present circumstances, to be avoided. Stokely led the way "up" the inner hull and across the "overhead," placing his magnetized boots as softly as possible.

The inter compartment hatch, about three feet in diameter, was wide open. Stokely pointed at Archer's flashlight and made a fanlike motion with his hands. Archer nodded, reached out and aimed the light through the hole, full flood, while Stokely peered through the other side, gun in hand. The stratagem was simple—anyone firing at the light might hit Archer's arm, but probably not Stokely's less expendable head.

Nothing happened. After a tense moment, Archer moved the light about slowly, then Stokely turned his own over the edge.

"There are two men in there," he said slowly. "Both dead, I think."

There was no doubt at all about one of them, whose corpse floated not six feet away, tied by one wrist to a conduit. Part of the face seemed to have been gouged out, and closer inspection showed the explanation: a sizable bullet-hole in the opposite temple.

Whether or not the other was dead, he was certainly not conscious, despite his normal sitting posture in the control chair. That was to be expected anyhow, in a free fall with the safety belt fastened. His squat frame was stripped to the waist, his small black eyes stared blindly, and his unshaven jaw was clenched in an ugly grin. His right hand loosely held a hypodermic syringe, and a pistol was stuck in his belt.

Stokely gave a brief description, and added: "He looks dead, all right. Maybe he tried to give himself an anti-tetanus injection, but was too late."

"Dr. Grimwood will please go in immediately," said Captain Rogan. "In the meantime, Stokely and Archer will look at the tail compartment."

The tail, or engine, compartment contained nothing of abnormal interest, as it turned out. The ship appeared to be in running order, with adequate fuel. Its power had evidently been cut deliberately, for whatever mysterious reason.

"Stokely will remain there," said Captain Rogan. "Archer will take the controls. We are withdrawing the contact rods, and will retard our fall, giving you enough clearance to align ship and test the power. If everything functions normally, the four of you will proceed to company base on Faria. Dr. Grimwood will exercise his judgment as to whether to remove your pressure-suits. Archer, as pilot, will take command."

Dr. Grimwood and Evans had removed the dead man from the control seat when Archer returned. The controls were fewer and less specialized, and in place of the all-seeing projection screen was a televiewer plate with fixed scanners, whose field was limited to the tailward sector of the heavens. Other observation was necessarily direct, through the several ports.

The televiewer became activated at the flip of the switch and revealed that Captain Rogan had withdrawn his ship to a safe distance.

Will Archer depressed a key which had the effect of applying a magnetic brake in the stabilizer unit to one of a pair of oppositely rotating flywheels, or "gyrotors," whose axis was athwartship. As the considerable speed of the gyrotor diminished, the ship began to turn with it in a slow somersault. Archer eased up on the key, and after some hundred and twenty degrees, released it. The gyrotor came up to speed again, stopping the spin nicely.

Archer paused with his hand on the power control. "Hang on, boys," he said. "There's going to be a floor."

The others got as close to it as they could, and Archer "raised" the thrust-control lever a few notches. Immediately, there was the welcome feeling of weight. This, as a dubious tribute to the adaptability of human flesh, became oppressive before the accelerometer showed one G.

"We're going to have to pour it on," said Archer. "Three G's for a safe margin. Since there's only one other chair here, maybe Evans had better go down with Stokely. There are two chairs there. And by the way, I think our two silent partners would be better off in the main storage compartment."

"Particularly," agreed Dr. Grimwood, "as they appear to have been dead two or three days. That would be one reason for keeping our suits on for a while." Gingerly, he picked up the hypodermic syringe from beside the sprawling corpse.

"It would be interesting to know what was in this. Maybe—" The doctor stooped again quickly. "But what's this?"

Will Archer looked down in time to see him force open the dead man's clenched left fist. As the fingers came back, a greenish, glowing object the size and shape of a brazil nut lay exposed. Or was it green? All the colors of the spectrum seemed to appear in flickering succession as Dr. Grimwood picked it up almost reverently, yet the predominant effect was of cold green fire.

After a moment, the doctor spoke softly: "So that's it! Farian jade!"

"Farian jade!" Archer echoed. "I've heard of it. Plenty valuable, isn't it?"

Dr. Grimwood nodded. "Fabulously. There are only a few hundred pieces known to exist, and their combined value could purchase a fair-sized, habitable planet!"

Evans' normally wide, dark eyes were bulging myopically. "Do you think these guys stole it?"

"Hard to say," said the doctor. "But, putting two and two together, it looks more like they made a find somewhere back on the planet. If so, there should be more of the stuff around, or some information—" He felt about in the dead man's clothing, and presently pulled some papers from an inner pocket.

"Here we are!" he said, unfolding them. "The Farian coordinates, a rough topographical map of the region, and written directions. They must have struck it rich—a find of only a dozen pieces could be worth twenty million dollars. They possibly decided to take out only a few pieces at a time and pass them off as stolen goods elsewhere in the system, legal protection being of dubious effectiveness where Farian jade is involved. But it was evidently too big a strike for their psyches to withstand."

Stokely stepped from the open hatch, his eyes fixed on the jewel in Dr. Grimwood's hand. He reached for it, held it up and studied it at several angles, then passed it back, his face inscrutable throughout the actions.

"It's about the only gem that can't be synthesized, isn't it?" he asked the doctor.

"Yes—that's the main reason for its enormous value. And it's my guess that it couldn't be synthesized for a long time even if we knew a lot more about it than we do. The reason we don't know much is absurdly simple: the stuff is just too damned expensive for a mere scientist to be permitted more than superficial analysis. But we do know this: synthesizing it would be tantamount to creating life."

"Don't look now," Will Archer interrupted calmly, "but there's a sizable planet breathing down our necks. So if you gentlemen would retire to your respective stations, I can guarantee to add considerable weight to the discussion."

"Not that the stuff is really alive, in any accepted sense," Dr. Grimwood went on a few minutes later, his breathing somewhat labored, but his enthusiasm not altogether squelched by three hundred and fifty added pounds. "But it certainly isn't jade at all, or anything similar. That misnomer has stuck because of its greenish glow—although if you examine it under a very strong light, it appears dead black. Actually, it's a microbiotic crystalline formation, the result of some age-long process believed to be conducted by a virus-like life-form. The 'jade' itself seems to be a borderline structure, having no obvious properties of life—yet there is the contradictory cold light, or bioluminescence, which would indicate some degree of electrochemical change. I'm not a bio-chemist myself, but I'll tell you there are one or two fellows on the other ship who would cut all our throats, in a charmingly objective manner, in order to lay their hands on this bauble. Some think that Farian jade may very possibly hold the secret of life itself."

With an effort, the doctor lifted his hand high enough so that, without altering his reclining position, he could peer over his own chin at the jewel. Archer found his eyes held by it almost hypnotically, as it pulsated through the gamut of hues, now blending, now contrasting with the dominant green.

"From what I've heard," said Archer, "the virus, or whatever makes it, is pretty deadly to humans. Is it true that you can't even tell you're infected until the final convulsions?"

"In effect, yes," replied Dr. Grimwood. "Although if you're exposed to it, which means stumbling across one of the rare and unpredictable localities where the jade is found, the chances are about four out of five that you will be infected. The fifth person, for some inexcusably unknown reason, seems to be immune. But there is one symptom that occurs with some punctuality three and a half hours after exposure, and about 15 minutes before the convulsions: it's a bodily glow, or aura, due to some bioluminescent substance saturating the tissues.

"However, it is so faint that it can be seen only in the dark, and then not by the victim himself, since it shows up only in contrast to a dark background. I think that is the explanation of the fact that we found all the lights out when we boarded this ship."

"You mean," said Archer, with some alarm, "that fellow might have died of the virus infection—in this chair?"

Dr. Grimwood smiled slightly. "Don't worry. In the first place, he didn't have it—he only thought he did. And if he had, you couldn't catch it, even minus your pressure-suit. The malady is not transmissible among humans. I almost wish it were, since we would have been obliged to learn a great deal more about it than we have."

"You say he thought he had it—was the stuff in the hypodermic some kind of antidote, then?"

"Undoubtedly," said the doctor. "And since there is only one antidote known, it explains what happened to the rest of the jade they brought along."

"That's right!" exclaimed Archer. "I remember having heard that now. The jade itself is the only antidote. But then—why did he die?"

"Because," said Dr. Grimwood, "the antitoxin, where the infection has not occurred, is a deadly and swift poison."

The doctor paused, then spoke bitterly: "There is some reason for believing that the jade, or end-product, might be rendered non-toxic in itself—if it were obtainable for experimentation. But it's not. They'll inject the stuff in their own skins to save same—one wealthy woman even mixed herself a million-dollar martini in order to commit suicide—but when it comes to turning over the smallest fragment to a laboratory, even billionaire philanthropists are restrained by their wives. And the specimens are never cut or ground since it wouldn't enhance their luminescence, so there aren't even any scraps for the hungry researcher.

"Anyhow, my guess is that these prospectors started off with their samples not too long after exposure. They could have been well out of the atmosphere before the three-and-a-half hour deadline. As it approached, they evidently killed the lights in order to watch each other for the symptomatic aura. Even though the probability was pretty high of at least one of them being infected, they most likely wouldn't have prepared any of the precious solution in advance. Fortunately, it doesn't take long—-you merely dissolve a minimum of ten carats in a little alcohol, and it's ready to inject.

"The fellow who was later killed must have developed the aura and been told about it in good faith, because I saw the needle-mark on his arm. Then came trouble. The other fellow happened to be one of the 20 percent minority who are immune. He failed to show the symptom, but suspected his colleague of lying about it. He probably kept him covered with his gun while he cut the power so that even the control lights would be out. Then he tried to tell by the reflection of his naked torso in the observation ports whether he had the fatal glow. It must have been a tense and ironic situation.

"Whether he was deceived by a diffusion of sunlight in the heavy vitreon or by his own taut nervous system, he evidently fancied he saw the aura, and shot his comrade in a fit of rage. Then he turned the equally fatal hypodermic on himself."

Although the four men were still in radio contact, having decided to keep their pressure-suits on until the air "cleared," nobody spoke for a while. Archer lolled his leaden cranium sideways on its rest, to see the rim of the planet looming hugely in the side ports. The ship would be reaching the near-point in another hour.

"They must have been pushing off at well over two G," he said, "for their momentum to have carried them out as far as it did. They made a big loop."

Dr. Grimwood smiled wryly. "I imagine they were impatient. How would you feel with a negotiable fortune as a cargo?"

"You might say," returned Archer, "how do I feel? That leftover you're holding must be 30 or 40 carats. I'll be glad enough to turn it over to the company and let them find out about salvage rights, if any. Frankly, I'm just a little afraid of the stuff. Its value seems to be of slightly lethal proportions."

"True," sighed the doctor, "but there's a great temptation to stop off at that find and sneak a hunk of it for some friends of mine. They'd get a bigger kick out of pulverizing it with a mallet than they would buying castles on Arcturus IV."

Under the onus of triple weight, the hour that followed seemed much longer. At last the ship cleared the dangerous fringe of atmosphere by a good thousand miles, and Archer aimed her nose at the retreating rim of the planet, reducing deceleration to a very tolerable 1.5 G.

"We'll swing pretty wide," he said to the others. "It'll be nine or ten hours before we get back in at a safe speed. If you fellows don't mind, I'm going to shuck this suit and catch a nap right here in this chair. I'm all in. I'd advise you, Stokely, to do the same. We may need to be on our toes later—this job won't practically land itself like the one we're used to!"

A few hours later, Will Archer was pacing a broad marble courtyard inlaid with Farian jade, in a kingly castle on Arcturus IV, when a rough hand on his shoulder shook him awake. It was Stokely, with his gun in his hand and an ugly smile on his rather handsome, freckled face. He motioned derisively toward Dr. Grimwood, who was bound securely to his chair.

"I can't figure the doctor out," said Stokely. "I thought he made a wonderful suggestion about stopping off and picking up some more jade, but now that I've invited him, he doesn't want to go."

Archer had discarded his own gun with his pressure-suit and was chagrined to see it now in its holster at Stokely's waist. He groaned inwardly, cursing his sleeping intuition for not having warned him. In looking back, he realized now that there had been more to Stokely's reactions than mere awe at the sight of a fabulous gem. And there was something else—Stokely, though a first-rate engineer, had been washed out as a Space Guard cadet on psychological grounds. He was quite sane, but too individualistic—his social and cooperative indices had been low. Captain Rogan had known of his record, of course—but he had not known what would be found on this ship, and what effect it would have on Stokely.

But what about Evans? Archer turned in his chair and saw the slightly built man standing a little nervously in back of him, holding what must be the dead prospector's gun.

Archer bit his lip. Not much was known of Evans, since he had been with them only two trips, and his responsibilities as an ordinary crewman had not been great. Archer judged him as a none-too-bright individual who would never undertake such a bold venture on his own initiative, but who might go to considerable lengths under strong leadership. Well, he had that in Stokely, whose pale blue eyes had a reckless and determined look about them.

"Are you with us?" demanded Stokely. "I could probably pull this off without you, but it'll be easier with you. Because you're a damned good pilot even if you are the Captain's fair-haired boy. What do you say? Not that we'll trust you very far, either way. Evans and I keep the guns. You'll have to string along part way, anyhow—if you want to come all the way, there's a fortune in it for you."

Archer unsnapped his safety belt and got to his feet, flexing his lean limbs, which were cramped from the many hours of confinement. As he faced Stokely, their eyes were on a level, although the pink-haired man would have run a good 30 pounds heavier—or, at the moment, 45.

"What guarantee," asked Archer in a dull voice, "would I have of that?"

"My say so, mostly," Stokely admitted evenly. "But I can use a pilot, not only now but later. After we grab the stuff, the first thing we'll need is another ship—and Faria won't be the place to look for it. When we get it, we'll get rid of this one. That's where you come in."

"How do you plan to do it?"

"Very simple. Charge it up to the hilt, set her course straight out of the system and let her go at about two G. It won't come back for a thousand years, at least. The company will figure something happened to it on this trip after we managed to miss the planet, and we couldn't get back. I thought of cracking it up on Faria, but somebody might spot it hitting the air, and the time would be way off. This way is better—we just got lost in space. With nobody looking for us on IX, it'll be a cinch to get out of the system from the interstellar base.

"After that—we can go buy that nice planet the doctor was talking about."

Archer scarcely heard the latter part of Stokely's speech, except to visualize briefly the ironic situation in which a pilot named Archer would change ships in mid-space—or start to. The important question was whether there was anything to be gained by pretending to throw in with the conspirators. Stokely, like most people who find it difficult to appreciate a different viewpoint, should be easy enough to deceive. It might mean a gain of considerable time—for Archer.

But what about Dr. Grimwood? There seemed to be no place for him in Stokely's scheme, after locating the jade, except perhaps the storage compartment with the two prospectors. Once Stokely had disposed of the doctor, he would undoubtedly require less of an excuse to do the same with Archer—and eventually Evans, in all probability.

There was a chance, however, that if Stokely found himself stoutly opposed by both Dr. Grimwood and Archer, he might hesitate to kill them both out of hand, at least until he could be certain of finding the jade deposit. Double murder is a long step for a man with no previous criminal record.

Archer made his decision.

"You can count me out," he said flatly, watching Stokely's face for a reaction. "That badlands where the find is supposed to be is a tough place to land a ship, so I'll put her down on behalf of all of us—but also on the condition that you'll release Dr. Grimwood and myself immediately. It'll take us weeks to reach civilization, if we're lucky. That ought to give you all the time you need. But I want your guarantee—otherwise, I'll have nothing to lose by trying to cross you up, if it kills us all."

The bluff evidently carried a certain amount of purely psychological weight, for Stokely seemed a little taken aback, and his blustering smile lacked full confidence.

"Honest Will Archer!" he said scornfully. "The pride of the company! You're in a hell of a position to bargain!" He went on in a more serious tone: "But it sounds good enough. You get us down, the doctor helps us find the jade—he's the only one who knows much about the stuff—and then the two of you can start out. Who knows—you might even make it!" He grinned.

It sounded as if—at the moment—Stokely regarded the proposition as an easy way out for himself. For Archer and the doctor, it would not be so easy. There would be at least two hundred miles of fearfully rugged terrain, infested by predatory and poisonous animals, insects and plants. It would be both hot and dangerous to travel by day—and downright foolhardy by night. And even this dim prospect depended on the slight scruples of a thoroughly egocentric individual.

It was not enough. Archer resolved to keep his faculties on the alert for any loophole that might occur.

But Stokely's vigilance had not slackened when, hours later, they approached the atmosphere at a speed slightly greater than that of the planet's rotation, and within an estimated five hundred miles of the coordinates shown on the dead men's chart. Stokely left Evans in Dr. Grimwood's chair, with the strict injunction not to remove his eyes from Archer, and took the doctor with him to the engine compartment.

Thereafter, Archer was obliged to give his entire attention to the business of angling the ship sharply into the atmosphere and opposing its thrust to the resultant of deceleration, gravity and air resistance, a function which was only semi-automatic, and needed constant correction.

The first landmark shown on the map, a jagged and mighty canyon, presently appeared between scattered clouds below. Archer set the ship's angle nearer to the horizontal, allowing gravity to pull it into a steeper descent.

The next landmark, a crescent-shaped range of sawtooth mountains near the far end of the canyon, showed up plainly, since shadows were lengthening across the face of the planet. A dozen valleys meandered off from the hills in a southerly direction and Archer aimed for the fourth from the south.

At last, one third of its length from the south end of the valley, the ship stood over the spot corresponding to the X-mark on the map and settled slowly on its jets. According to the scrawled notation, the jade deposit would be not more than half a mile away, near the valley's east wall.

Archer delayed the impatient Stokely long enough to provide Dr. Grimwood and himself with packs of food and water from the ship's stores, trading on the doctor's promise to help locate the jade. Once it was found, Archer did not intend to remain at Stokely's mercy long enough to return to the ship.

All four of the men donned their pressure-suits, primarily as a barrier against the deadly "jade" virus, but incidentally as a protection from all manner of unpleasant insects and tentacular, stinging plants. Also, there was an abundance of scurrying, cold-blooded little horrors, reminiscent of Terran reptiles or batrachians, but by those standards grotesquely misshapen.

Vega VII was a planet whose surface had been prematurely desiccated by a broiling sun, although there was still considerable water available in underground lakes, but the excess of hard radiation had spurred evolutionary processes to improbable extremes.

Just now, the outsized, glaring white orb was low in the sky and the temperature was becoming tolerable. Before morning, in this dry air, it would probably drop far below freezing.

Stokely made Archer and the doctor walk ahead, at a difficult pace over the rough ground. They went willingly, however, since failure to find the jade in the next hour or so would mean spending the whole night in untrustworthy company.

The final fixing of the location was accomplished by aligning the tip of a rocky promontory resembling a human nose with a farther peak and walking directly away from it until a small ravine was encountered. The deposit was 75 yards farther on, according to the instructions, in a direction a little south of east. All four men paced it off with extended strides, ending up in a scattered configuration, with no two of them more than ten yards apart.

The men faced each other and looked about. It was a rock-strewn area similar to a dozen others they had passed through on the way here. But closer inspection revealed one difference. Here and there were piles of dry, gray bones of different sizes, some of them crumbled almost into dust.

"Looks something like an animal graveyard," said Dr. Grimwood. "But I rather imagine it's less purposeful than that, and most of them simply made the mistake of sleeping here."

"Well," said Stokely, his voice harsh and a trifle high-pitched, "where's the jade?"

He deliberately pointed his gun at the doctor, who regarded him dubiously.

"I'm sure it's here," said Dr. Grimwood, "but I really don't know much about its appearance in the natural state. They carefully avoided any mention of that on their map, you know. That map was intended for them alone." The doctor began to walk slowly among the rocks, studying them. "I seem to recall, though, hearing something about—"

He paused, bent down slowly with the weight of his pack, and dug with his space-gauntleted fingers at a hollow in one of the larger rocks.

"—moss!" he finished. "Gray moss. I think this is it."

The tufted moss was hardly distinguishable from the stone itself in the waning light. Dr. Grimwood plucked from its core a thimble-sized lump. Holding it up, he scraped away part of the gray coating. It was as if, with some magic flint, he had struck green fire. The eerie glow of the gem made the surrounding area seem suddenly darker by contrast.

Will Archer only glanced at it, returning his gaze quickly to Stokely, on his left. In the big man's reaction to this climactic discovery might lie some clue to his probable course of action.

And the expression on Stokely's face was not good to see. The pale eyes which had widened at the first sight of the gem now narrowed to slits, while his normally regular features pulled into an ugly mask. A dark flush suffused his freckled cheeks.

Archer watched him with growing alarm. There was little doubt that, for the moment, Stokely was not sane.

His gun, still pointed at Dr. Grimwood, moved slightly, and Archer saw his finger tightening on the trigger. In one motion, Archer slipped free of his pack and flung himself at the heavier man.

The gun went off just as he struck, and Stokely, caught off guard, was bowled over like a tenpin. His head-globe hit hard against the rocky ground, protecting his head but smashing a large hole in the globe.

He went over so easily that Archer himself was thrown off balance. He stumbled over Stokely's legs and fell a few feet beyond. Rolling over quickly, he scrambled to a crouching position, then paused, and drew himself slowly erect.

Evans was standing just beyond Stokely, and the gun in his hand was aimed steadily at Archer's stomach. Dr. Grimwood was lying prone and limp, his blood trickling out between the stones under him, the bit of jade glinting near his outstretched hand.

Stokely picked up his gun and got to his feet dazedly, shaking his head to clear it. Archer studied his face and saw there a vast, rising anger, but no longer the wild light of utter unreason. The man was in a dangerous mood and might readily kill again, but he had evidently been jolted back to a semblance of sanity.

Suddenly, Stokely's eyes widened and fear became dominant in his expression. He obviously had just realized the implication of the fact that his head-globe was broken. He licked his lips, and looked back and forth from Archer to Evans.

His mouth tightened with sudden purpose.

"Evans! Look out!" Archer shouted, but too late.

Stokely had lashed out with his gun and caught Evans sharply on the right wrist. As Evans' gun dropped from paralyzed fingers, Stokely easily shoved him away and scooped it up from the ground. He stepped back a few paces, keeping a watchful eye on Archer.

"Okay," he ordered Evans grimly, "take it off!"

Only then, evidently, did Evans' slow wits grasp the meaning of what had happened. His dark eyes stared with fright, but he loosened the clamps with trembling fingers, and set his head-globe carefully on the ground. Stokely, now in possession of all three guns, holstered the one in his left hand, removed his cracked head-globe with some difficulty, and even more awkwardly replaced it with Evans'.

Head-globes were interchangeable, though the individually proportioned suits were not. The reason that Stokely had called upon Evans, not Archer, to remove his globe was disturbingly obvious. Stokely wanted Evans in the same status as himself, for the time being—which should have been reassuring to Evans. To Archer it was quite the contrary, and he was not surprised when Stokely scowled at him a moment later and spoke in a voice that was too quiet:

"As for you, you're too smart for your own good. I don't think we need you around any longer." The gun in his right hand swung slowly.

"On the contrary," said Archer quickly, "since that borrowed helmet might not make any difference now, you need me worse than ever. That is, unless you trust each other implicitly." He spoke the last few words with slow emphasis.

For a long moment, the gun held steady, then it lowered a little. Stokely gestured with the other hand.

"Take it off," he said harshly, "and I'll hear what you have to say. I'm not promising anything, though. For instance—why should I trust you?"

Archer removed his head-globe, admitting the outer air. It was cold against his face, and so dry by comparison with the humidified air of his pressure-suit that it caught in his throat as he breathed. He left his headset on for communication with Stokely.

"Maybe you won't have to," Archer answered steadily. "I have a plan that might work in spite of our low regard for each other's veracity. But—in case it doesn't—you'll be better off if you take off that globe."

Stokely sneered. "You'll have a hard time selling me that idea!"

"I don't think so, when you see the point. You're forgetting that in this case, a false cure is just as deadly as the disease. I don't know just how full of the virus the air is hereabouts, but as far as either of us can tell, you may be cutting down your chances of getting infected. Evans' chance, and mine, with full exposure, will be four out of five. That means if we can't find out for sure whether we have it, we can take an injection and be 80 percent sure of being right.

"How sure can you be?"

Stokely's face set in a grim mask as the realization sank in. He removed his globe and set it out before him on the ground. Again the gun raised to Archer's chest.

"Okay, bright lad, you put it on!"

Archer smiled thinly and shook his head. "Could you be sure that I don't know more about the infection than I've admitted? In which case, it might be a trick to get the globe for myself."

Stokely's face was twisting dangerously again, and Archer went on quickly:

"Better leave us all in the same boat, anyhow—it'll work out better later on."

It was a full, tense minute before Stokely's fury subsided to a point where he could speak.

"I think I'm making a mistake in letting you live," he said thickly. "This plan of yours had better be good. How does it work—with mirrors? Let's have it!"

"Lacking mirrors of a size which would show a good contrast—say about ten feet square," Archer returned calmly, "we'll have to use other means. My plan will give each of us an equal chance, at least. I'll tell you the first part now: we take all the jade we can find around here, before dark if possible, and go back to the ship. I'll tell you the next step when we get there. If that isn't good enough—or if an 80 percent chance is—you can shoot and be damned!"

It was nearly three hours later, very dark and very cold, when they returned to the ship. Archer and Evans carried Dr. Grimwood's body, consigned to the same storage compartment as the dead prospector's. Stokely evidently had not altogether abandoned his original plan for disposing of the evidence. The question now, Archer thought grimly, was how many bodies there would be.

Stokely himself carried the jade, of course. Under his prodding, they had literally left no stone unturned in the vicinity of the deposit. It had yielded nine pieces of varying size and a total weight of perhaps a hundred and fifty carats. They added up to riches beyond imagining.

One of the lockers, as would be expected aboard a prospector's ship, contained an assortment of standard chemicals, and Archer lost no time in locating a bottle of ethyl alcohol. There was also a balance and a set of weights.

"The next step is simple," he said, anticipating Stokely's question. "I make up a solution of antitoxin. There are hypodermics in the medical kit, which is in the control room. The doctor put the one we found up there in it, and I'm pretty sure I noticed a couple of others. Perhaps you will trust Evans to go get it, and in the meantime, I'll trouble you for about 30 carats of jade."

"Thirty carats! That's enough for all three of us! We may not all be infected."

"No—as a matter of fact the odds work out to be only a little better than 50-50 that we all have it. But we've all got to have the means of doing something about it if we find out—otherwise the plan won't work.

"If we find out!" Stokely echoed harshly. "Archer, you've stalled around long enough! What is this plan?"

Archer looked at him in open disgust. "You've stalled around long enough! There's only 20 more minutes until the three-and-a-half hour deadline. Let me get the stuff made and then we'll talk about it. Incidentally, 30 carats is less than the share you offered me—and also a lot less than I value my life. So you can figure the shots are on me."

With a reluctant grimace, Stokely removed the utility kit from his belt and poured out a small but dazzling cascade. Archer weighed several combinations of the smaller gems, and found one group of three which came to a little under six and a half grams or about 32 carats.

Unceremoniously, he dumped them into a small beaker, and poured in a little alcohol. After a minute or so, they softened and dissolved. Archer added distilled water and stirred the solution gently.

Evans returned from the control room and handed the medical kit to Archer, who took out the three hypodermics. Forcing himself to take great pains, he divided the solution among the three.

"No time to sterilize these," he said. "Not that they should need it. Here is the one used by the dead man—I don't mind taking it, if anybody else does. This next one has a little more in it than the others. Stokely, you're the biggest, so—but suit yourself. Now let's get these suits off and get outside."

"Why can't we wear the suits?" asked Evans. "It's freezing out there!"

"Because they're opaque," said Archer patiently, "and the aura is so faint that your cranium alone probably wouldn't give off enough to be visible. Personally, I'm going to strip to the waist. I'd be inclined to strip further, if it weren't for the fact that some of those crawling things out there are about as deadly as the virus."

In silence, the three men climbed down from the airlock, their flashlights cutting holes in the thick darkness. Faria was a moonless planet, and the hour was late.

Under the watchful eye of Stokely, Archer walked clear of the retractable landing supports and shone his flashlight about the small level area in which the ship was fairly centered. He held the beam steady on an outcropping of rock about 40 feet away.

"There's a good background for you, Stokely. It faces the lock, and I imagine you'll want to do the same."

He swung the flashlight slowly around. There were several piles of boulders standing about, and Archer indicated two of them, each about 120 degrees from the first.

"Evans and I can take those two positions. That way we'll form a triangle, each of us about 40 feet from the ship, and in plain sight of the others—that is, if we develop that fatal glow. In any case, Stokely, I think you can depend on us staying put until we find out, since—"

"And then what happens?" Stokely demanded impatiently. "How do we find out—without trusting each other? The whole set-up sounds silly to me!"

"It's my life, too," Archer reminded him. "And in case you're in any doubt, I don't trust you, either. Here's the plan: As you know, all of us were exposed within a very few minutes of each other. That means, according to our late friend, the doctor, that in ten to 12 minutes from now—perhaps a few minutes longer—one or more of us should show the symptomatic aura.

"Now there's the point: one or more of us. There's an excellent chance we won't all show it. Allowing an adequate margin, the next 20 minutes should reveal who has the infection and who hasn't. I propose that at the end of that time each of us in turn announces, not which of the others shows it but simply whether he sees the aura at all. He doesn't tell whether one or both of the others shows it, but merely whether at least one does."

"What good would that do anybody?" asked Stokely glumly.

"None, in itself. But you forget that all of us will be reporting. For instance, supposing Evans says he sees it, but I don't show it, or vice versa—two very distinct possibilities. Then you'd know that the only place Evans could have seen it—"

"What if he were lying?" Stokely put in sharply.

"That's the general idea in back of the whole scheme. He couldn't get away with it. If he said he saw it and didn't, it could only mean that neither you nor I showed it. In that case—which is one of the lesser possibilities, incidentally—I'd be led into the same error that you would. But it would then be very much to our mutual benefit to compare notes before taking any injection.

"If he said he didn't see it, and either of us had it, the other would know he was lying. If we can't trust each other to tell the truth, we can't very well depend on each other to back up our lies—especially when there is everything to lose by it. If you knew Evans was lying about me, how would you know whether he was telling the truth about you?"

"Now listen!" protested Evans, who seemed to be shivering as much with fear as with the cold, "you guys talk like you expected me to pull a fast one. Hell, it's complicated enough if we all tell the truth—don't worry about me!"

"I was using you for an example," Archer told him. "The same thing applies to each of us, and we should all be able to see that honesty is the only workable policy. There's one more little matter to be decided: the order in which we report. I think it would be fair to reverse the order of exposure, which would probably make it the order of observation. I was exposed last, so I'll report first, then Evans, then Stokely.

"Now I'd suggest we take our positions, so we can kill these lights and let our eyes get used to the dark. There's only six to eight minutes to go."

Archer turned and started off, half expecting some last-minute objection from Stokely. But the latter merely waited to assure himself by means of his flashlight that Archer and Evans were half-way to their appointed places, then started making his way toward his own.

The spot to which Archer had assigned himself turned out to be a jumble of loose rocks, complete with small and unpleasant denizens. He frowned. The footing would be very bad for dodging bullets, should matters turn out unsatisfactory to Stokely.

As the latter reached his position, about 75 feet away, Archer called out:

"Let's all face the ship, and don't anybody move after the lights are out, or you'll lose your orientation. Don't even shift your feet! Four to six minutes to go—but it could be sooner! I'm stripping down now."

He switched off his flashlight, and after a moment, Stokely and Evans did likewise. The night closed in disconcertingly, the utter dark wiping out all visual cues and rendering one's very balance momentarily precarious.

Archer removed the watch from his wrist and placed it in his pocket. Its face was luminous, and he was uncertain of its possible competition. He doffed his jacket and tied it about his hips, then unzipped his shirt to the waist and slipped it from his shoulders, tucking the sleeves into his belt.

The air was too dry for a sudden shock of cold, but within seconds his outer flesh began to ache dully, and there was difficulty in expanding his chest sufficiently to breathe. He wondered how much of it a healthy man could stand before pneumonia became certain.

Stokely was apparently trying to warm things up in his vicinity with a muttered string of vehement oaths, and Archer thought he heard a low groan from the direction of Evans.

The black border of the horizon was becoming visible now against the lesser darkness of the sky. Directly before him was the outline of the ship, the control-room ports showing dim and ghostly above with the light seeping up from the waist compartment.

Archer began turning his head back and forth at about ten-second intervals, staring into the blackness approximately 60 degrees each side of center, swinging his arms and flexing the muscles of his torso in a losing battle against the advancing numbness.

He started suddenly at a slight sound of movement in the rocks not two yards away in the direction of Evans. But it was far too faint for human feet on that treacherous ground. More probably it was some small monster—quite possibly attracted by the dubious warmth of Archer's body, which was certainly radiating for all it was worth.

Wryly, he thought of one of the more abhorrent of the local fauna, a lizard-like creature which attacked any animal which had the single qualification of being within a considerable jumping range. The beastie combined the least intelligence with the most virulent poison in several star-systems. With barbed feet and tail, it clung to its victim through the death throes—which usually began immediately—and unless torn apart or crushed in the process, it fed. Fortunately, the species was one of hundreds equally numerous and generally less deadly.

At least five minutes had passed, by the most meticulous of estimates, when Archer saw the glow. He had been looking at it for several seconds, in the direction of Stokely, before he realized what it was.

He had expected a modification of the greenish luminescence of the jade itself. But this was a mere patch of gray in the blackness, to begin with. It whitened, gradually revealing the blurred silhouette of the man within it. At that level it remained, and his outline grew no sharper. By blinking several times, Archer was able to distinguish the arms from the rest of him, and assumed from their respective positions that Stokely was holding his gun in his left hand, the syringe in his right.

It seemed twice as long—by which Archer judged it was about half—before a similar dusky patch became visible in the direction of Evans. He showed up very soon thereafter, because unlike Stokely, he was churning his arms as if in direct combat with the cold.

Archer began to count slowly to himself, swinging his arms in a period of about a second. He had not done so before, because it would have served no particular purpose, and would have made the time seem even longer. Now it was important not to allow too long an interval following the second revelation of the deadly symptom. There must not be too much time for the others to think about the situation.

Yet there must be enough to insure his showing the symptom himself, if he were going to. He estimated that Evans' period of "incubation" had varied from Stokely's by about a minute, allowing for the difference in the time of exposure. If Archer's varied from Evans' by as much as two minutes, there could still be three minutes or more to go. Of course, it was possible that he already showed it—or even that he had been the first. Five minutes should allow a safe margin, he decided.

Two minutes of it were now gone. Archer's arms felt like lead-weighted pendulums, yet he restrained the tendency to urge them to more rapid motion. The count of 60 took a small eternity.

Three minutes. His arms were so numb it was occasionally difficult to tell for sure when they had reached the end of their swing. It would have been reassuring to be able to see them. He widened his eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to penetrate the dark, and momentarily he almost fancied he saw a dim haze about him. He thought of the dead man they had found in the pilot's seat. There were no limits to the fallacy of human vision, under emotional stress.

Four minutes. If the original 20-minute period happened to be over and the others were aware of it, they made no sign. That would not be strange. Having agreed that Archer would make the first report, they would hesitate to venture any comment, for fear of dropping some kind of hint.

Five minutes. Archer fumbled awkwardly for his watch. If all his estimates, pieced together, were correct, there should still be a minute to go.

He was amazed to find that there was not. By leaning over backward in his guesses, he had actually managed to be conservative. The time was up—in fact, it was almost 15 seconds past. It was time to get the formalities over with and end this desperate game.

"All right!" Archer said loudly, his voice cracking slightly. "It's time to report, and here's mine—" He paused briefly, then finished: "I see it."

It was now up to the others either to lie or to admit they saw it. It didn't particularly matter which, but Archer rather expected the truth. Evans was next.

After a moment, the latter's voice came somewhat falteringly, but clearly enough: "I see it."

Surprisingly, Stokely did not keep them waiting. His report came immediately, in a hoarse monotone: "I see it."

Now. Archer's gaze swung back and forth between the two others during the space of a long breath. Their shadowy figures did not move, but stood irresolute.

Archer exhaled with vast relief. "Okay, you fellows," he announced, "we've all got it. Here goes my injection."

Watching Stokely carefully, he plucked the syringe from his belt with enormous caution, and forced his feeble right hand to drive the needle into his left forearm and press the plunger all the way. There was one slight advantage to the cold, after all—he hardly felt the perforation.

He dared not pull up his shirt as yet. It could very easily have the effect of making him fade partially from Stokely's view, and might provoke the big man into blazing away at him.

It was quite possible that Stokely would shoot anyhow, though under the circumstances his aim might not be at its best.

"You lie!" Stokely said suddenly, as between clenched teeth. "The only way you could know about yourself would be if I didn't have it. Then you'd know where Evans must have seen it."

"One minute ago," said Archer, "that would have been true. And if you had thought of it a minute ago, instead of just now, things might have been different. But putting yourself in my position with respect to Evans, or in his with respect to me, was too big a step for your egocentric mind. You haven't quite done it yet, or you would understand this:

"If you hadn't shown the aura, I would have known instantly that I did. Also, Evans would have known about himself, immediately. But we didn't know, immediately. None of us did. And there is only one way we could all see it and remain uncertain. That is for all of us to have it. I didn't know, you both didn't know—and therefore I knew. Can you follow that?"

After a pause, Archer went on: "Incidentally, I wouldn't let a dog die the way both of you are going to in the next few minutes unless you do something about it. That's why I've taken the trouble to explain it."

Evans suddenly cleared his throat, and his voice came plaintively: "Uh—are you sure I've got it, Mr. Archer?" The necessity of the conclusion was clearly beyond him.

"Quite sure," Archer returned, noting that Evans had sought the truth from him instead of his own colleague in crime.

"That's good enough for me." Evans' motions showed dimly that he was making the injection.

But Archer spared him only a glance and turned back to watching Stokely. The latter had not yet moved.

"Okay, Stokely," said Archer, "I'll give you a better break than you'd give me—I'll prove it to you. You're facing me now. Raise either arm, and I'll tell you which one it is."

Stokely seemed to hesitate, then raised both arms to the horizontal.

"You're pretty sharp, at that," Archer told him, "when it comes to thinking from your own corner. You raised both of them."

Stokely's arms dropped, but not all the way. There was a motion as of applying the hypodermic.

Quickly, Archer drew the sleeves of his shirt over his arms. But he had counted too heavily on Stokely's preoccupation. The latter turned rigidly, as if continuing the injection, and fired.

Archer felt a shock which spun him half around, but could not tell just where he was hit, for the moment. He began to run awkwardly through the loose rocks toward the sanctuary of the pile of boulders, raising his jacket high to screen his head. In doing so, the location of his wound became evident with a jab of pain. His left arm was useless.

The next instant, the glaring beam of Stokely's flashlight picked him out, and the second bullet spanged against a boulder just as he ducked behind it, peppering his cheek with rock dust.

Stooping low, Archer moved around the pile, as the crunching sound of Stokely's rapid footsteps came closer. He cursed the luck that had enabled Stokely to cripple him. He felt his paralyzed arm gingerly—the bullet had struck just below the shoulder, and he guessed that the bone was broken, but the wound did not seem to be bleeding much.

There was no use making a break for the next heap of rocks over this treacherous ground, even if he knew precisely where it lay. He would simply have to play tag with Stokely until—

Suddenly, the footsteps slowed and seemed to stumble. There was a clattering among the rocks and the lancing beam of the flashlight cut off. Darkness and silence descended.

Will Archer waited tensely. If all were well, Stokely should be out like the light he had been carrying. But Archer was in no hurry about using his own. It would make him altogether too vulnerable, in case this just might be a ruse.

Then from a little distance came the welcome beam of Evans' light. Archer peered out carefully and beheld the prone, unmoving figure of Stokely, his arms doubled under him as if to break his fall.

Unhurriedly, Archer turned on his own flashlight, walked around and set it between two rocks so that its beam made a path of light between himself and the ship. He rolled the big man over with a thrust of his foot, exposing the gun underneath. This, and one gun from the unconscious man's two holsters, Archer picked up and stuck in his belt. The remaining one—Archer's own—he pointed at Evans, who had stopped ten yards away.

The latter wore a puzzled expression—apparently at having found the wrong body.

"What did you do," he asked Archer, "hit him with a rock? Is he dead?"

"I wish I had," said Archer without humor, "and I wouldn't feel a bit bad if he were. In fact, I intend to see to it that he is lawfully executed. But in order to do that it will be necessary to get him back to the base. You're elected to drag him over to the hoist."

Archer stooped again, without taking his eyes off Evans, and laid his gun on the ground. He took the kit of jade from Stokely's belt and pocketed it, then picked up the gun again and stepped back a few paces.

"You can fasten his arms with his own belt," he told Evans, "and his legs with yours. He should sleep for hours, but there's no use taking chances."

Evans came forward meekly and bent over Stokely, then looked up, startled. "The hypodermics! You must have put something in ours that—"

"Not yours. Do you recall how willingly he took the one with the most in it? Well, he got no more antitoxin than you and I did. The rest was a quick-acting sedative that the doctor brought aboard in case we ran into a lunatic. I emptied most of it into the distilled water, but I left enough to do the trick. I trust you're buckling that belt good and tight."

Evans' blue lips twisted glumly as he pulled off his own belt and applied it to Stokely's ankles. Suddenly, he smiled.

"Say! What makes you think they'll believe your story about what happened? It's your word against ours. Suppose we tell 'em that—"

"You're daydreaming," Archer broke in. "You'll be a lot better off to resign yourself to spending five or ten years in a penal colony—probably on some planet worse than this one.

"In the first place, you could never pass the lie-detector test, although Stokely might. In the second place, it isn't just my word against yours—our psychometric ratings will be weighed, too, and I'll let you guess whose will be found wanting. And finally, what kind of criminal will murder for profit, then change his mind and toss the loot on the manager's desk, of his own free will?

"Which is just what I intend to do. But there'll be one string attached. A sizable hunk of this stuff, together with a shiny new mallet, goes to Dr. Grimwood's pals."

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