Chapter II: Part 2

Glancing down, Ricker saw the ships closing beneath him like a flock of starved condors. In a moment they'd be in gun range.

"Gotta keep moving," he told the radio. "They're coming fast. Stand by and I'll try to think of something."

He streaked up to the roof of the icy chamber, sailed fast toward the far end.

And suddenly he did think of something--something so simple it seemed foolish.

"Listen!" he yelled to the radio. "Turn your ships around. _Sit down_ on the ice! Give your rockets half throttle and let gravity pull you down as the ice melts under you. It'll take a long time but I may hold 'em off till--"

A flash of white lightning streaked across his view plate. The ship steamed, sweat formed little beads on Ricker's forehead, ran into his eyes. One was diving in front of him. Ricker squeezed his trigger, saw the ship flash into floating dust before him. He saw another coming down from above.

With a quick jerk of the wheel, he zoomed up and over, wheeled into a swift Immelman and dived.

The buildings, the field, the standing planes below whirled, surged up to meet him like a nightmare of falling.

He pulled out of the dive not fifty feet from the tops of the buildings, zoomed away again with the planes hot on his tail. They'd followed him down, were streaming after him like a swarm of hornets.

For the next ten minutes those below witnessed the weirdest dog fight in all flying history. There wasn't room to make a running battle of it. It was dive, zoom, streak from one end of the cave to the other like hawks fighting in a cage. Ricker twisted into every contortion his straining jets allowed. And still those ships closed in relentlessly, often striking one of their own number--which closeness of battle was Ricker's only ally. The ships closed in slowly, inexorably formed a ring of murderous heat around him.

It was a losing fight. Ricker knew it. He couldn't elude them forever. One well-timed blast and he'd go down in a swirl of ashes and smoke. And his constant fighting the controls to avoid the ships, to avoid crashing the walls and the roof, was wearing his arms to dead aching weights.

The ships tried strategy. They divided, Ricker saw, into five groups, waited for him at each corner of the chamber while the others gave chase. And these groups closed in with each wild dive he made.

Soon they would have him trapped between them. Well, the game was about up. It was a matter of minutes now. He might as well do as much damage as he could before they got him.

He banked over in a last dive, hoping only that the Patrol got in before the ships saw them. Even the Patrol wouldn't have much chance against these weapons. As he went over, saw the floor of the cave revolve around like a side wall, a streak of lightning struck the tail of his ship with an impact that jarred every rivet. The ship went crazy, spun down like a shot bird.

Ricker hit the wheel with all the failing strength of his arms. More by will power than anything else, he pulled out into a shaky glide. But try as he might there was no response from the elevator jets. He couldn't rise again. The ships fell like stones upon him for the kill.

Below, looming rapidly in the windows, he saw the long line of buildings, the thick circle of ships resting on the field. He fired full-blast as he passed over them. Buildings burst, split into halves as if an earthquake had struck them. Ships disappeared in a wide swath under him, hundreds went up in smoke.

The field fled beneath him, a deep smoldering trench following his flaming guns. The house across the field and the silver dome loomed up, raced toward him with the speed of a locomotive.

"The power plant!" Ricker suddenly yelled it at the top of his voice. If he could crash that--!

With a supreme effort--he didn't know how he did it for the ship was beyond all control--he keeled over into the metal dome as he left the field.

The painted wall of silver filled his viewplate. Each rivet stood out. He could have counted them. He saw the nose of the ship push into the metal. The glass of the viewplate caved in upon him. The instrument panel reared up, smashed him in the face with an ear-splitting explosion.

The world splintered in a hell of sound....

Oddly, Ricker wasn't knocked out. When the ship stopped bucking, he found himself sitting amidst the twisted wreckage of the controls, smoke curling through the torn hull and his face wet and sticky.

His mind was numb, unthinking as he fingered a swelling lump between his eyes. His fingers came away red. He crawled out of the ship. Wires, tubes, warped transformers and machinery were everywhere. He heard a hum of ships outside. It was dark in the room, the shadowed wreckage reared in grotesque shapes like dancing demons. He couldn't move his right arm and, looking down, saw that his whole side was stained with warm blood. A feeling of coldness penetrated his dulled senses. It was like a deep ice cave.

Ricker limped to the door of the ruined powerhouse, stared out upon a scene like a polar twilight. Gray hulks, ships, bordered the ghostly field and black silhouettes were the factory buildings across the dismal space. Where the heat units had been were scarecrow towers, a sputtering orange flame at each peak--like small dying suns. Their heat was gone. The air was deadly cold, not the biting cold of a north wind but the numb rigid cold of breathless freezing. Yet the cold was alive, moving. It seemed to push against his body like air pressure. The temperature fell degree after degree as he stood there, like a thermometer with the red fluid leaking out the bottom.

Ricker smiled. He had destroyed the powerplant, the heat units were dying. The place was returning to ice again....

He passed a weary hand across his clotted forehead. Although he had destroyed himself, the work of Trexel was also ruined. It was worth it, his thoughts came slowly. The hell inside Neptune would return to its frozen gases.

How long had it been since he crashed? It seemed hours. But it must have been seconds for ships suddenly landed out on the field in a storm of rocket fire. As he grew weak from loss of blood and the cold, he noticed a surging dark wave sweep across the field toward the ships. Then the sound of shouts, screams, shrieks reached his ears. It was the clamor of fear itself. Slowly he realized it was men racing across the field, now white with frost. The men swarmed around the ships. He could see little in the dim light of the red flares, could make out only a writhing mass of vague shapes around the silver ships which reared above them like huge turtles.

As he watched, the voices grew weaker, died to low cries of crawling terror and despair. And Ricker felt himself grow weaker. The cold crept into his bones, into his heart, into his brain. He couldn't think fast. He thought slowly, leaning against the door. The icy walls of the place seemed to be sliding toward him, the roof descending. The field was cold as a snow-covered grave.

The voices out on the field were hushed. All was quiet, soundless with the utter silence of deep hidden places.

He was lying on the ground beside the door, staring up at the black glistening roof that was moving down upon him. He didn't think any more. He was very tired.

A hulking shadow stood over him. He felt it more than saw it. He saw two hands reach down. They dragged him across the field. He could see everything quite clearly but his eyes seemed set in a vise-like single focus. He noticed the twin tracks his heels made in the frost on the field....

Then it was warm, a soft clinging warmth that seemed to flow throughout his tired body--like life flowing into him again. He was lying on something soft and comfortable.

He opened his eyes, saw a woman's face before him.

Ricker stared at the face a long time. It was a perfect oval, wreathed in jet black hair, molded with deft yet full lips and a firm nose. The eyes were green. It was Molly Borden. Her green eyes were glistening, wet with tears....

"Why did you save me, Molly Borden?" he asked finally.

"I am not Molly Borden," she said. "I am _Dorothy Adison_."

* * * * *

The words meant nothing to Ricker for a moment. He just lay there staring up at her. Then with a shock like cold water, the meaning of her words crashed upon him.

"Dorothy Adison--!"

"Don't talk," she said softly. "Lie still and drink this." She put a glass of warm liquid to his lips. He gulped thirstily and the stuff darted through his veins like fire. Quick strength suffused his body.

He lay there, panting a moment, then slowly struggled up on an elbow. His right arm was tightly bandaged with a piece of silver cloth. He saw it was a strip from the woman's dress, which was in tatters above her rounded knees. She sat on the end of the sofa. She was crying, softly like a child.

"Dorothy Adison," breathed Ricker. "You lie! She was blonde--an Earthian. You're Venusian and--It's a lie!"

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I dyed my hair," she said.

"But your eyes--they're Venusian--slanting--!"

"Makeup," she said.

Ricker sank back upon the sofa. "But why?" he said. "Why!" None of this made sense. Molly Borden confessed killing Benjamin Adison and now she said she wasn't Molly Borden but Adison's daughter....

"You--killed your own father?" It was the only thing Ricker could think of to say.

"Trexel killed him," she said. The phrase seemed to harden her again. "I saw him coming out of the laboratory after father was--. But I couldn't prove it. He had a perfect alibi. And after the inquest, he tried to kill me--twice. I became Molly Borden to escape him, then got the idea of following it through. There was just a chance that confessing the murder might arouse Trexel's curiosity, make him get in touch with me. I took the chance--and it worked...."

It was too much to believe. "You mean you acted suspicious, let the police catch you and burned something to look like those plans? You risked a life sentence on Pluto--!"

"It was the only way. I played free-lance thief--Trexel believed I was at the laboratory after he left. I told him I stole what I thought were the plans. I told him the police frightened me into a confession of the murder--and they _were_ none too gentle."

"But why didn't you tell the police--before you left for Pluto. They could have--"

"I could trust no one. At first I planned to tell at the last minute but after his message came--in jail--I knew I couldn't. It was delivered by the district attorney himself. He told me I would be taken from the ship before I reached Pluto."

Ricker understood a lot of things now. It was like finishing a jig-saw puzzle, when all the pieces are suddenly seen to fit. "Does Trexel know who you are yet?"

"I tried to kill him after you left," she said. "But I had only a knife--he was too strong. You saved my life when you stole the ship. Trexel went after you. I watched from the window."

Ricker glanced toward the window. The light was gone and in the room itself crept the chill of the darkness outside. The heat units were dull red embers.

Ricker sat up quickly. Swift pain drove him back down. "We've got to get out of here!" he said. "This place'll be a block of ice in no time, air and all! We can steal a ship and--"

"Steal it?" said the woman. "There's no one to stop you. The workers are dead. There's nothing to stop you--but the cold outside. It's sudden death out there now. It's too late."

Ricker gritted his teeth, arose despite the lightning pain. He waved aside her restraining hand, sat on the edge of the sofa till the weakness passed.

"We've got to get away," he said. "We can't stay here. We'll die."

"I know," said Molly Borden-Dorothy Adison quietly. "We'll die. It was far below zero when I went out to look for you. By now, the roof must have lowered half-way down--it's probably 200 degrees below zero out there now. But I don't mind the dying so much. It's that I've failed that hurts. Trexel got away--father is unavenged."

Ricker had forgotten about Trexel for the moment. The thought brought him to his feet and he forgot his pain. Both Trexel and Vanger must have escaped. They were up in one of the planes. They had only to melt through the ice. "Trexel got away--"

"_Yes_," a calm deep voice from the door. "And he will complete his purpose!"

Ricker turned slowly toward the door. He heard the woman gasp.

Trexel and Vanger stood there. They wore heavy electro-suits, heat steaming from them into the chill room. Trexel held a pistol in his right hand.

"Notice the window, telenewsman," he said.

Ricker turned to the window, saw bright daylight outside. The heat units were on again--!

* * * * *

"Yes," said Trexel. "The units are working. Did you think we would depend on a single source of power? It took a few moments but it was simple to switch on an auxiliary plant. And most of the men will revive, the cold struck them so quickly. Before you know it, everything will be as good as new." He smiled his fat, pasty smile. "Watch them, Vanger, while I get out of this suit."

The Martian pulled his own gun, Trexel struggled out of the hot clothing, dropped it to the floor and sat down heavily. Ricker stared as if he'd been struck with a mallet.

"Now," the fat man said, pouring a drink, "I'd like to clear up just one minor point before we dispense with you two. Did Ricker know who you were all the time, Miss Adison?"

The woman didn't answer, looked at him like a caged animal. But to Ricker there flooded a sudden ray of hope. Trexel might still believe his stall about the President knowing his whereabouts. Did he _still_ have an ace in the hole?

"Yes," he spoke for the woman, "Miss Adison and I have been working together for weeks. But that doesn't matter, Trexel. In a few moments your hide-out'll be swarming with Patrol ships. They know where I am and they'll be here any moment."

The fat man laughed. "Still trying to pull that stuff," he scoffed. "Well, it doesn't go over again. I contacted Washington and my agents tell me there's no truth whatsoever in your story. No one knows where you are. You were both working entirely on your own." He raised his pistol. "But enough of this!"

"Wait," said Vanger. He coughed behind his hand. "Why shoot the woman? Give her to me and she'll never speak a word of what she's seen if I have to cut her tongue out."

Trexel smiled. "So you, too, have been attracted by Miss Borden's beauty. But perhaps you won't like her, so well as Dorothy Adison, Vanger. Have you thought how she would look without that yellow dye on her skin, without that makeup on her eyes and with Dorothy Adison's blonde hair?"

"I like blondes," said Vanger. "And if I remember rightly, Dorothy Adison was a beauty in her own right."

"Well," said Trexel. "A dead woman's little use to anyone. If you'll remember about that tongue-cutting--"

Vanger laughed till he began coughing.

Trexel raised the gun, pointed it full in Ricker's face and laughed. Ricker could see his fat knuckle whiten as it squeezed the trigger.

Molly Borden screamed, flung herself in front of him. The Martian jerked her aside. Ricker's good left arm came up. Then it halted in mid-air.

To his ears came a sound like bubbling water to a man dying of thirst. He didn't believe it at first, paused, lips parted, listening. Then his eyes danced with a wild light.

Trexel heard it too. His face was like chalk. He stood there with the gun still poised, a great bear-like statue. It was the hum of rockets! Not the rockets of Trexel's ships, the jets of the Stellar Patrol. It was! The Patrol had gotten through!

Trexel stood like a man of stone. For a full ten seconds he didn't move.

Ricker knocked the woman aside, dropped to the floor. The gun flamed. Trexel pulled the trigger wildly. Ricker snatched the glass table from the floor beside him, hurled it up into the man's ghastly face. His thick mouth burst into a red spray as glass crashed. He fought to get rid of the table, its jagged edges cut into his arms and face. Ricker hurled a chair. It hit the man's head like a pole striking cement. Trexel's gun fell from his hand, thudded on the floor. He sagged down beside the wall.

The Martian didn't pull his gun. He stood, staring, listening to the cries, the sound of the planes and the guns outside. He didn't appear to see what was going on in the room. Suddenly he whirled, bolted to the door.

In the heat of his fury, Ricker flew after him.

Vanger dashed down the corridor, Ricker ten feet behind. He went through the door, started out upon the field. As Ricker reached the door, he saw Vanger stop suddenly, look up. The din of the Patrol boats was thunder in the echoing hollow. The air was filled with them. The field was littered with men running, falling and lying still. A boat swooped down toward the lone Martian standing there, fell like a bird of prey. Vanger started to run back toward the building. Tat, tat, tat! A long flaming line followed him, slowly, like a curse. Little puffs of dust spurted around him. The puffs stopped. The Martian halted. He stared at Ricker in the doorway and his face was puzzled. He coughed and his chin, his shirt became cherry-red. Then he crumpled to the ground.

Ricker turned, walked slowly back to the room.

At the door, he paused. He saw Dorothy Adison standing over the motionless hulk of Trexel. She swayed, one hand at her throat. In her other hand was Trexel's gun. Where the head of the fat man had been was a dark, dripping ball of horror.

The woman dropped the pistol. It struck the man's body, rolled to the floor.

Then she was suddenly in Ricker's arms.

* * * * *

Lounging deep in his red-leather chair, Bill Ricker squinted out at the port as the sleek space ship streamed through the darkness. He could see nothing outside but a big, humorous-eyed young man who was his own reflection and the green tinted star that was Earth--home.

"I hear you got a raise," said the tall blonde women in the seat beside him.

"Yep," said Ricker. "The Chief tried to get out of it but since the government offered his star reporter twice as much, he had to give in." He stared at the woman queerly. With her golden hair, her clear emerald eyes and perfect features she possessed a strange loveliness.

"Madam," he said. "What do you plan to do with your life? Have you no aims, no ideals, no guiding light?"

"Nope," she said. "I'll just follow you around, I suppose."

"And what if I get tired of it?"

The woman smiled. "I hit you with a wrench once--"