Chapter II

Alcatraz Asteroid was a separate world, an island of rock, wedge-shaped, eighteen miles long, and roughly the same in the circumference of its larger end. The interior was not hollow, but was honey-combed with habitable caverns like large bubbles, connected by a maze of passages. Outer levels had all been converted into a prison without guards and without bars. Life was easy, the social structure simple, idyllic or primitive depending upon the point of view.

Though not completely self-sufficient--since enlightened penology provided lavish supplies--the convict community would have gone on much the same if the rest of the Solar System had suddenly ceased to exist.

Elementary machinery for the basic trades had been provided; its use or neglect was left up to the prisoners. By artificial illumination, food could be grown in subsurface hydroponic gardens, and limited animal husbandry was encouraged. But lack of usable fuels and raw materials limited manufacturing to safely low levels, which prevented even gifted technicians from getting ideas. Potentially fissionable ores were present in the deep interior, and under pressure someone might have found ingenuity to process it. Air and water were hermetically sealed-in, automatically purified and reclaimed at need.

Convicts were self-governed, which meant a rule of claw and fang since weapons were crude and hand-made. Dwelling in caves, the prisoners returned to an archaic way of life and became cave men. Life was brutal, direct, and usually brief. Cowards rarely got there, and the weak and unfit were quickly weeded out by living conditions intolerable to endure. Survivors were a tough, rangy breed who would survive anywhere. The few women were rank weeds, not delicate flowers; if they did not thrive, they persisted. Some children were born, and those who lived grew up as sinewy, strong and poisonous as desert snakes.

At the time the asteroid had been converted to a prison, it was assumed that it was uninhabited. But laired deep within the poisonously radioactive caverns was a small colony of the legendary lost race of Pit Men.

Underworld legends told in whispers that these eery creatures sometimes came from their lairs and mingled with the human convicts of Alcatraz. Actually, prisoners rarely encountered them, for the Pit Men were shy, nervous beings, harmless unless provoked, and did not issue from their caverns except by stealth for provisions. The aboriginal dwellers were neither man nor bird, though they resembled both superficially. They were non-human, non-animal, being plants, mobile and intelligent, a variety of animated fungus so alien that contact on any but the simplest levels was impossible. Even so, they were the one fly in the ointment--

Outside of rumors, Wilding knew little of the Pit Men. But he had given them much thought, and wondered if he might find a use even for them in his escape plans. For the moment, though, he must confine himself to building up an organization. Breaking out of Alcatraz was no simple matter, and the escape he had in mind was definitely not a solo effort. He would need good technicians and a host of willing workers. For now--

There was Tichron and the challenge.

Word had gone out, and the convicts were assembling to enjoy the sport. A newcomer had challenged Tichron.

Wilding let his new-found friends lead him through an involved series of caverns. Accustomed as he was to varied atmospheres and gravities on many worlds, Wilding had difficulty in adjusting here. Air pressure was kept high, and artificial gravity set low, which made breathing and balance precarious. With a little additional effort, he felt that he could shove himself free of the rock floor and swim in the dense air. He must remember that in his encounter with Tichron, who would be accustomed to conditions in Alcatraz.

So interested was Wilding in his surroundings that the arena was reached almost before he realized it.

Dimensions of an immense hollow sphere lost themselves in murky light. Tiers of stone seats climbed the concave, curving walls, and a noisy crowd swarmed into the spectators' sections. Wilding's companions led him down an arched ramp to the low-walled pit at the bottom center. Tichron had not yet arrived, and in the interval of waiting, Concor the Martian and Grouth the spidery Mercurian worked over Wilding feverishly to massage the stiffness from his limbs. Amyth retreated into sullen silence, but Tiny leaned close to Wilding's ear and whispered.

"I like your guts, young man. But why so soon? You should've waited to get back your strength, and choose a time when you have studied Tichron's style."

Wilding wished profanely that the woman would stop calling him "young man." She was old enough, though life on Alcatraz might have aged her prematurely, but no older, surely, than a Martian Pzintar idol, which by atomic timetable is something less than two million years. At times, Wilding felt older, less human, more fouled by life.

* * * * *

Wilding braced himself for Homeric struggle and turned to smile coolly at his strange cohorts.

"Waiting would be fatal," he told them grimly. "I need quick authority, and the unquestioned compliance of workers. In about two Earth-weeks the supply ship will be back. By that time I want the lighter ready for space. I want it supplied and powered for a longer run than picking up a miserable cargo of supplies."

Grouth sneered. "Without fuel?"

Wilding answered coldly. "Leave that problem to me."

Concor shrugged. "Since you are new here I should explain that there are no rules in the fight. If Tichron wins he can break your back with impunity. Probably he will. He has cruel whims. That is also your problem, and I leave it to you, willingly. However, just as advice, stay clear and do not grapple with him. Keep away and strike out hard with your fists. Some blows may get through all the blubber and muscles. If you give him a good enough fight, he may even respect you enough to let you live. Crippled, of course...."

A ragged crowd-shout ordered the start of the fight. The hyenas were impatient for the carnivores.

Tichron was advancing, slowly and confidently. Wilding stood up and moved slowly into the circle of combat. The cleared space was small, the ground surface uneven.

Wilding feigned nervous indecision. He appeared to hesitate, as if contemplating flight.

Laughter and jeers flicked him like whips.

Lowering his head, he moved with lightning swiftness. His move was totally unexpected. Rushing across the arena, he flung himself at Tichron like a living battering ram. His head connected solidly with Tichron's midriff. Breath gushed from the giant like air forced from a trodden balloon. Doubling up, Tichron reeled backward. His fists flying, Wilding hammered the exposed face. Tichron straightened long enough to receive a knee in the place most painful to him. The shock almost lost him the fight at once, but he recovered and hurled Wilding across the arena.

Wilding caught up a stone bench and flung it, but the light gravity betrayed his effort. It went wild. Nearly weightless, it still had mass, and part of the entranced onlookers avoided being brained only by undignified scramblings.

Now Wilding and Tichron circled each other warily. Tichron stopped circling and slid forward in liquid rhythm of movement. He caught Wilding flat-footed, jerked the lighter man off his feet and raised him high overhead. Wilding crashed to the floor with stunning force. Tichron leaped to come down on his prone opponent with both feet. But Wilding was already rolling. He caught one of Tichron's feet, twisted and jerked. The giant sat down violently.

As Tichron rose, Wilding launched himself in a suicidal dive at the giant's stomach. Again he connected like a battering ram. The sound of expelled breath was explosive. This time, as Tichron bent double, Wilding brought up his knee against the exposed jaw. There was a loud crack. Pawing frantically, Tichron went down in a heap. Wilding jumped, brought both feet down on the quivering hulk. It was like leaping on a rock. But Tichron was through fighting. He lay peacefully unconscious.

The fight was over before it had well started.

Jeers changed suddenly to cheers. As winner and new champion, Wilding was king of Alcatraz. But not undisputed king--

A tall, cadaverous man stepped from the crowd.

"My name is Credus. I challenge you now?"

Wilding turned to Concor. "Is that in the rules--to fight one after another like this?"

"There are no rules," said the wily Martian.

"In that case--"

Wilding snatched a blaster pistol from the spring clip on Tiny's belt. He jammed the muzzle hard into Credus' side, but not before Credus had drawn his own gun and thrust it at Wilding.

Neither could miss, but it was deadlock.

"I'll bargain with you, Credus," suggested Wilding. "Unless you want to chance pulling that trigger."

"What bargain?" asked Credus sourly.

"Meet me here again in two Earth-weeks. I will fight you then without a gun, or turn the asteroid over to you."

Credus shrugged. "I am not a fool, halfling. But be here, or I will find you and kill you."

Credus stalked darkly from the arena, followed in silence by a full third of the assembled prisoners. With his departure, the cheers for Wilding were less enthusiastic, as if the throng disapproved of Wilding's trickery.

Tiny, the Amazon, was kneeling beside Tichron, who was conscious now, but breathing heavily.

"She was a nurse on Earth," explained Concor. "Before she got the habit of strangling her fretful patients."

The woman looked up and smiled brightly. "That gun of mine is loaded with alternating blanks," she observed. "I kept wondering if Credus would call your bluff."

Wilding met her glance. "So did I," he admitted. "And I remembered about those blanks. Can you do anything for Tichron?"

"Better kill him," advised Grouth impatiently. "It is your right."

"Let him live," said Wilding, frowning. "I may have some use for him."

The girl Amyth sneered unpleasantly. "The man has a mania for utility. Have you some use for me, halfling?"

"Halfling, yourself!" replied Wilding, with anger rising in him. "Perhaps, I have--when I have less important things to manage. But I'll let you know. Don't rush your luck."

A slow flush crept into her cheek, but she swallowed a corrosive retort. After all, Wilding was boss, and her arms were brittle.

Wilding turned to Grouth. "Who are the technicians? I'll want all kinds to get that lighter in shape for space."

Grouth laughed bitterly. "Time enough. Concor can help you select the technicians. He's one of them, and a spaceship wrecker has to know many technical trades. But you'll need more than men, you'll need miracles."

Concor broke in. "He's right, Wilding. We have skilled labor to work with, but no materials. Metal is scarce here, but we can junk some machine tools for part of what we'll need. The real lack is fuel. You can't process metal without heat, and you can't power a space-lighter with non-existent chemicals. They leave only enough chemical fuel each time to power the lighter for the next pickup. I will back your play, but I'm no good at working miracles. I've even forgotten how to pray, and I doubt if any known or unknown gods would heed a prayer from me."

"I don't pray for miracles. I arrange them. Can't the lighter be converted to use atomic power?"

Concor waved empty hands. "Not easily. It could be, probably, but what is the use? Where would we get activated fuels?"

"No fuel," repeated Grouth, his voice like a dirge.

"There are radioactive elements in this asteroid," argued Wilding. "Can't they be used?"

Concor shook his head grimly. "They are here, true. But they are useless to power an atomic converter for the lighter. For two good reasons. We can't lay hands on them, literally. Without any shielding, we would be burned like moths in a flame, and the danger of the Pit Men is too great even if we dared invade their caverns. The Pit Men used to be harmless and friendly, but they aren't now. Some of the convicts found out they were good eating, organized hunts and stuffed themselves on Pit Men. Nowadays, we rarely see a Pit Man. They slink about in the caverns like shadows. And they wage a relentless guerilla warfare. Any convict they catch alone is a dead convict. They rush him and overwhelm him. Probably they eat him or use him to fertilize their nursery beds."

"I could talk to them and make a deal," said Wilding.

* * * * *

Every convict in hearing laughed harshly.

"Try it," suggested Amyth acidly. "Their arms are less brittle than mine."

"And while you're at it," went on Concor, "ask them to mine and process it for us. They're immune to radiation burns. In fact, they seem to thrive on rays that are deadly to us. We've never dared invade the lower caverns because of the radiation, which makes their homes an impregnable fortress for the Pit Men."

Wilding nodded quickly, understanding.

"Could I go there and talk with them?" he demanded.

Concor shrugged in futility. "You could if you were foolish enough. There would be some exposure, but not necessarily a fatal dose if you made your stay short. The Pit Men will kill you before the radiation does."

Tichron was stirring. He blinked painfully and sat up, nursing some cracked ribs. He stared at Wilding with frank admiration.

"It was a mistake to let me live," he said. "Someday I'll challenge you for another try. But not right away. You fought me fairly and defeated me. You give orders and I'll see that they're carried out. Also, a word of warning. Credus is next in line, he thinks. Watch him. A stealthy knife in the dark or a sudden shot from behind is his style. Sooner or later, if that doesn't work out for him, he'll challenge you. But never if you have a chance."

Wilding laughed sharply. "He already challenged, but we've postponed the occasion. I'm going to try to make a deal with the Pit Men. Have you any advice?"

Tichron's face worked curiously. He heaved his bulk erect and grimaced with pain.

"Yes, some advice. Don't go. Certainly, not alone. If you insist, I'll go along and show you the way."

"Thanks," said Wilding. "But you're in no shape for it. Rest up, and I'll find work for you. Who else will go along and show me the way to the Pits?"

He glanced round the circle of faces. Several of them paled and disappeared with suspicious haste.

"I'll go," offered Tiny. "But I won't want to come back alone. Will you come along, Amyth? The Pit Men have never offered to harm a woman. Probably not from chivalry, but none of us have ever had the stomach to try eating the filthy things."

"I'll come," agreed the girl quickly. "Perhaps we can watch while the Pit Men work over our hero. I wouldn't want to miss that."

Wilding smiled savagely. "Perhaps I will let one of them break your arms as part of the deal."

Before leaving with the women, Wilding gave orders to Grouth and Concor. All the machine tools were to be put in running order. All technicians assembled and ready to work on the space-lighter. Tichron was ordered to bed to rest and recover from his beating.

Authority seemed to come naturally to Wilding.

He enjoyed the curious sensation of responsibility and power. His previous life had given him no taste of organizing mass-effort. At first, he had been a lonely, hunted fugitive, then later a solitary beast of prey.

For a brief term, he had lived among the space plunderers, and he had headed a piratical crew. But the role then had been that of wolf-leader, one of the pack, with little authority and no great responsibility to his fellows.

Here, partly by accident, he had achieved perilous command. The people, such as they were, looked to him for decisions. They looked at him with respect. Grudgingly, they yielded leadership, but only to him as a better man. He felt a strange, new emotion.

He was contented, and oddly stimulated.

With Tiny and Amyth leading, he headed toward the deep caverns and his dangerous business with the Pit Men who dwelt there....