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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Astounding Science-Fiction, May 1940, with "Space Double"
If a crook can't bribe an honest man—he
may be able
to pull something extra in the way of replacements!
THE little air scooter dropped swiftly to the ground in front of the grimy, old-fashioned stone house on the outskirts of Great New York, and two men jumped out. One was lean and dark and wore a perpetual scowl that matched the thin upcurve of his pencil-line mustache. The other was chunky and moon-faced, and smiled interminably. But the smile was a matter of surface muscles only and was belied by a pair of hard, pale-blue eyes. Of the two men the chunky one was by far the more dangerous.
The lean, dark man held tight against his body a short, metal cylinder of the kind used for carrying films. He scowled doubtfully at the sign that stretched across the front of the house.
JOJO
DEALER IN SECONDHAND ROBOTS.
EXPERT REPAIRS AND RECONDITIONING.
REASONABLE RATES.
In confirmation, several robots stood stiffly at attention behind a dirty, long-unwashed screen of lucite. They were of the ordinary cheap, mass-production type; rusty, battered and seemingly fit only for the melting furnace.
"It looks sort of crumby to me," observed the lean man. "You sure this is the place, Al?"
The dumpy man widened his grin. "Don't judge by appearances, Jem. I've been trying to pound that into your skull for years now. There ain't no one in the Federal Americas can hold a search beam to Jojo when it comes to robots. What did you want for his kind o' game? A snappy Boulevard get-up with custom-built robots pirouetting on a floodlit stage? That'd be a swell way to get a lot o' snooping inspectors digging into his business."
Jem wilted under the reproof. "O.K., Al; I was only saying—"
"I'll do the saying—an' the thinking, too, for this outfit." Al's voice was cold and hard, even though his smile was still turned on.
They stood in the photoelectric scanner the prescribed period; then the dingy door slid open and they went in. For a moment they stood blinking in the dim half light that filtered in from outside. There was no other illumination.
The interior was even more of a worthless junk shop than the lucite screen. Rusty robot parts, old metal hands, outmoded power packs, discarded legs and a profusion of coils, generators and broken springs were scattered all over the place. Mustiness, gloom and decay pervaded everything.
Then a gnome-like figure that had seemed but another robot in the corner stirred and came slowly to them. His face was as sharp as a file, and his eyes were two glittering beads that darted over his visitors with the precision of a scanner.
"What is your business?" he demanded.
"We want to have a robot made," said Al, grinning.
The gnome-like man stared at him hard, then shook his head. "You've come to the wrong place, mister. I only do repairing and sell secondhand stuff. Sorry!"
"Stow it, Jojo," said the dumpy man rudely. "I'm Al Barlow and this here's Jem Scudder. You've heard of us. We came here to talk business, not to gab."
Jojo's face underwent a transformation. There was respect in it, abasement even. "Every glimmer hide-out from here to Jupiter has heard of Al Barlow. You must forgive me, but I didn't know—"
"How could you?" retorted the dumpy man affably. "Ain't but a few ever seen me what kept on living. Now let's go to your real layout, so's we can talk properly."
THE dingy shop was only a blind, a mask for prying inspectors. Underneath it, solidly ensconced in search-proof illurium walls, stretched the real layout. Luxury was the keynote here, as squalor had been in the shop above. A long, magnificent chamber, amply furnished with deep, soft divans, neo-silk draperies, silent-teed floor coverings, multi-hued lights that were exceedingly easy on the eye.
An inconspicuous panel opened into the workshop. A girl came out of it, took their hats with a graceful gesture. Jem stared at her admiringly. She was slim, patrician and beautiful. Her cheeks were pink and soft. She smiled provocatively at the thin, dark man and she said something in a low, tinkling voice.
Jem swallowed hard and started up: "Gee, sister, you look good tuh me! What d'ya say—"
Al did not change his smile as he shoved hard with the palm of his hand at Jem and pushed him sprawling back into his seat. "You poor dope!" he said. "She's a robot. Jojo makes 'em like that."
The thin man gulped. He did not resent the push, but he blinked unbelievingly at the girl who was turning away. "Gee, a robot? You're foolin'."
The gnome-like man rubbed his hands, coughed modestly. "Oh, she's not much. I've done much better. I get some curious jobs. Take George Wallace, for instance."
"The hermit millionaire?" queried Al.
"Yep; the fellow that lives all by himself on Ceres. I did his wife for him."
Al stared. "You're nuts! I remember the wedding five years back. She was a Martian gal."
"She was," Jojo nodded, "but she died last year. Wallace hushed it up. He almost went crazy; he loved the kid a lot, it seems. Then he got wind of me. I made him up a robot that set his hair on end. He swore he couldn't tell the difference nohow. They're living together pretty happily on Ceres, I understand."
Al's eyes glittered. "Swell! If you kin fool a husband with a wife, my job should be easy. Take a look at these here pictures what Jem's got." They sat in the projection room, watching the film. It was a three-dimensional stereoscope with a sound track. The subject was a heavy-set, firm-jawed man dressed in the dark-blue uniform of the Jovian Transport Line. The golden comet that flared across the high collar band denoted his rank as captain.
The film brought him to life in a score of different settings. Obviously he had not known he was being scanned. One setting was a complete run on board a liner from Earth to Jupiter, with stopovers at Mars and Ganymede. Another showed him in the privacy of his own home, with his wife, a matronly, comfortable woman, and a tousle-haired boy of six. Still another showed him roaring it in the company of a gang of hard-bitten space-hounds in a pulka dive on Ganymede. Others set him forth to the life walking the streets of New York, in conference with the chief of the line, and so on.
The films took four hours to run. When they were through, Jojo said with a note of respect: "You've certainly not missed up on much, Mr. Barlow. How did you manage to get 'em?"
Al chuckled. "That's Jem's job. He's not good for much in a scrap, but he sure can manipulate the stereo-scanners. He's been following that guy around like a shadow for the last two months. So you think there's enough there to reconstruct him from head to foot?"
The gnome-like man said briskly: "Leave it to me. I'll get you a robot that Captain Zachary Dow's own wife won't know the difference."
Al leaned forward. His voice was soft and he grinned merrily, but Jojo shrank from him suddenly as though he were a coiled rattlesnake. "So you know who he is, eh, Jojo?" The gnome-like man spoke hastily. "Who, me? Don't know him from Adam. I forgot I even said a thing just now."
Al's hand released its steel grip. "That's better," he approved. "You're a sensible guy, Jojo; and you want to stay healthy. Now about this robot; I gotta have him by Friday noon. That's five days."
"It's a short notice," Jojo said, still shaking, "but seeing it's for you, Mr. Barlow, I'll manage it."
Al nodded. "I'm sure of it. I'm used to gettin' things done on time. Jem and me'll be back Friday noon."
SATURDAY morning was clear and warm. Captain Zachary Dow drank a third cup of coffee that the robot servant had handed him, wiped his lips and got up from the table. He stood a moment buttoning his dark-blue tunic, then picked up his cap, set it on his grizzly head and bent down to kiss his wife. She was crying.
"Now, now, Maria!" he soothed awkwardly. "Don't take on so. I'll be back in a couple of months; then we'll have a real long vacation together."
She clung to him, the tears streaking her comfortable features. "You said that before you went on the last trip. It's gotten so I don't know if I got a husband or not. A week at home, two-three months out in space."
Captain Dow smoothed her hair with tenderness. "It's tough, I know. The Line promised me a three months' lay-off after the last run. But this is a special run. Chief Matson said he wouldn't trust anyone with it but me. You ought to feel proud. It's supposed to be strictly confidential, but there's a government shipment on board, under seal. Half a billion in the latest osmo-iridium currency. It's supposed to represent the balance of trade for the past year with the Jovian colonies."
"That makes it worse," she exclaimed tearfully. "Now I'll have to worry about hijackers. I've heard that that dreadful Al Barlow has been operating among the asteroids lately."
Captain Dow grinned. "Don't you worry about Barlow, honey. The patrol's hunting him pretty hard. They'll get him sooner or later. And even if they don't, the Flying Planet's the latest and fastest boat in space, guaranteed to show a clean pair of heels to any private. Besides, she carries six torpedo tubes." His granite jaw snapped shut with a click. "I'd like to see Barlow get within our sights."
He looked hastily at his timepiece. "Say, I'd better hurry! Got a few things to take care of, and the Flying Planet's due to blast off at noon sharp. 'By!"
He kissed her again, snatched up a brief case, and literally ran out of the house.
"Damn this life!" he growled to himself as he fled toward his private hangar across the lawn. "I'm going to talk turkey to Matson after this trip. Either I get a month's lay-off between runs or I quit."
The photoelectric scanner picked up his shadow, swung the door smoothly open. Inside he saw the trim lines of his two-seater air scooter. He could be at the rocket-port in twenty minutes; then—
Menacing figures straightened up on either side of the door. Short, flexible blackjacks swung skillfully. Captain Dow went down without a sound.
"Think we've killed 'im?" asked the thin, dark man anxiously.
"Naw!" grunted the short, chunky assailant. "I've conked people before. He's got a hard nut. Here, give me a hand with 'im. We ain't got much time tuh lose."
THE Flying Planet quivered in its launching rack like a giant ovoid bird eager to be off. Its beryl sheath dazzled in the warm sunshine. The great airfield hummed with movement and last-minute scurryings.
Cliff Dunstan, very trim and athletic in his dark-blue uniform, with a solar sunburst on his tunic—sign manual that he ranked second in command—stared for the tenth time at his timepiece.
"I haven't the faintest idea where Captain Dow is, Mr. Matson," he explained patiently for the fifth time to the fidgety, stoutish man at his side. "I just contacted his home, and Mrs. Dow said he left two hours ago. Don't worry, though; he'll be here on time. He's as reliable as the Solar System."
"But, damn it!" spluttered Matson. "It's fifteen minutes to starting time. He has "no right to shave it this close. Especially with the kind of cargo we're carrying."
Cliff bit his lip, looked around to see if anyone had been listening. Matson was like an old woman sometimes. While he didn't anticipate any trouble, there was no sense in shouting the news. Half a billion in currency might give ideas to an eavesdropper.
But no one had heard. The usual last-minute stream of passengers was darting out of aerocabs and panting up the gangway. The purser checked them against his list as they filed into the bowels of the ship.
Then his keen eye caught sight of a cab dropping to the ground close to the ship. Three men got out. The short, chunky one paid the driver; and all three turned toward the Flying Planet.
"There he is now," exclaimed Cliff, taut muscles relaxing in his throat. He didn't mind now admitting to himself he had been worried. It was unheard of for Dow to be so late.
Captain Dow strode along stiffly, swinging the battered brief case he always carried wherever he went. It was as much a part of him. as his uniform. Flanking him on either side were the two men. They were strangers to Cliff. One was dark and thin, and scowled as though it were a habit. The other was short, dumpy, and smiled broadly all over his moon-face.
"Thank God!" Matson exclaimed, and darted forward to meet his captain. "We never thought you'd get here, Dow. Don't you know the ship's taking off in ten minutes?"
Dow stared at the chief of the Jovian Line from under bushy brows. He did not change expression. "Had some last-minute things to take care of," he countered briefly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be getting on board."
"Sure, sure!" Matson agreed hastily, and stepped aside. He wiped his shiny pate anxiously. He had been in a dreadful stew, but now everything was all right. Good man, Dow! Had never let them down before. Matson left, more comfortable in the thought that it would be Dow piloting that fabulous sum through space rather than one of the other captains. If anything should go wrong, the Jovian Transport Line would be sunk.
Cliff met Dow with a grin. "You had us on the anxious seat for a while," he greeted. "Everything's shipshape, though, and ready to take off the moment you give the word."
The captain smiled back. They were good friends, even though there was a difference in rank. "I knew I could depend on you for that, Cliff. Hop on board. We blast off in five minutes."
He nodded curtly to the purser at the head of the gangplank. Galligan saluted, stepped aside to let the two officers pass; then stopped the two men following.
"Names, please!"
"Why—uh—" coughed the short, chunky man.
Captain Dow half turned. "Oh, that's all right, Galligan. They're friends of mine who decided to take the trip to Callisto at the last moment. Their names are—uh—Barlow and Scudder."
The purser said: "Very good, sir."
Cliff was surprised. Dow was a stickler for formalities, and this was decidedly informal. Unless, of course, the two men were secret agents sent on board to guard the treasure. Then he grinned.
"Barlow, eh? Not by any chance Al Barlow, sky raider extraordinary?
The chunky man missed a step, then resumed his steady march into the open port. The thin, dark man half whirled, and his hand moved toward his pocket.
Captain Dow said, without any expression, "No; this is Mr. Frank Barlow, a good friend of mine. Come on, Mr. Scudder."
Cliff stared after their retreating backs. Though Dow didn't show it publicly, he had a good sense of humor. He should have come back with some biting wisecrack. He didn't.
Another thing. He was exceedingly meticulous about his uniform; especially at the start of a run. Yet the dark-blue tunic and trousers were rumpled and a bit dirty.
Cliff turned to the purser. "Have the gangplank pulled in, Mr. Galligan. We're blasting off in two minutes."
Then he hurried to the control room. It was one minute before noon. Invariably he stood side by side with Captain Dow at the intricate bank of controls at the zero moment.
The door was closed and locked. He pressed the buzzer. There was a confused murmur, but the door did not open.
Then the great ship lifted smoothly, swiftly, the anti-acceleration plates working beautifully. Not a passenger would be jarred, not an inch of cargo shifted; though the ovoid liner had rocketed from the rack at an initial velocity of three miles per second.
Cliff went down the luminous corridor toward the crew quarters, frowning. He could have sworn he had heard voices inside the control room with Dow. And they weren't the voices of any of the ship's officers. He didn't like the way the voyage was commencing.
IT took Captain Zachary Dow almost an hour to struggle free from the tough lashings of cello cord with which he had been bound. He was bruised, a bit bloody, with a sizable bump on his head, and mad clear through. What made him still more furious was the fact that he had lain trussed like a pig, clad only in his shorts.
He didn't remember very much. Only a fleeting glimpse of two men coming at him suddenly in his aero-garage, an uplifted arm, and everything going black. When he weltered back to awareness he was alone, securely bound, and without tunic or pants.
The last strand finally gave. He staggered to his feet, growling like a wounded bull. He did not recognize the place where he was. An obviously deserted, ramshackle shack somewhere in the woods.
Luckily the timepiece fastened to his wrist was still intact. He glanced down at it, and his heart almost stopped functioning. It was ten after twelve. The Flying Planet would be late starting for the first time in Dow's career as a spaceman.
Just why he had been knocked out, kidnaped and his clothes stolen he did not know; nor care at the moment. He had to get to the airport, and in a hurry.
He set burly shoulder to the sagging door, crashed into woods. The sunlight pricked out a road through the thin line of birches. He raced for it. Out on the highway, heedless of the figure he cut, he waved his arms violently. An aerocab was skimming by, close to the ground, its yellow pennant streaming to show it was empty. It twisted violently and dropped beside him.
Dow yanked the door open, darted in. "To the airport," he rasped, "and in a hurry!"
The cabby's eyes popped. In his game he ran across plenty of unusual sights, but a bloody madman in a pair of shorts was a bit thick.
Dow yelled at him. "Hurry, you blithering idiot. I'm Captain Dow of the Jovian Line. My ship's past blasting time. I've been shanghaied; my clothes snatched by a brace of blankety-blank horse thieves."
At twelve forty flat they dropped to the smooth floor of the port. Dow's head was already out, his eyes glaring in disbelief.
The launching rack stuck its struts toward the sky like skeleton fingers. The Flying Planet was gone!
An attendant hurried by. Dow yelled at him. "Where's the Flying Planet?"
The man, intent on his own affairs, did not turn toward the source of the bellow. "She went forty minutes ago, on schedule. Tough luck if you missed it."
The cabby looked suspiciously at his passenger. He had never heard of a liner going off without its captain. "Now look, mister, you'd better pay the fare. I ain't got all day to—"
Dow disregarded him. He saw Matson outside the patrol booth, talking to a ground cop in gray.
"Hey, Mr. Matson!" he roared.
"Come over here. This is Dow!"
The stoutish chief whirled as if he had been stung. His eyes bulged in his forehead; he made inarticulate, choking sounds as he came on the run. Finally he found his voice.
"Wh-what's the meaning of this, captain?" he gasped. "Y-you're on your ship, millions of miles out already. What in the name of Saturn's rings are you doing here; dressed like a lunatic?" He pressed a feverish hand to his head. "Or am I going whacky?"
Dow said coldly: "I'm myself in person, and no stereo; and I'm not on any hornswoggled ship in any blankety-blank space. What do you mean, Mr. Matson, by clearing the Flying Planet without its captain? Haven't you read Article 4, Section 3 of the Spaceways Code recently?"
Matson disregarded the insubordination of the remarks. He was fighting for his own sanity. "But I tell you, Dow," he literally pleaded with the apparition, "I saw you plain as daylight going on board. Why, dammit, man, Cliff Dunstan, the second, greeted you and went in with you. You came along with two strangers—friends of yours, you said."
Dow began to shake a bit. He made a ludicrous appearance, standing there in his underwear, but he wasn't interested in that. There was something with an awful smell about it going on. If Cliff Dunstan had seen him, too, then maybe that conk on the head had done things. Maybe he wasn't Captain Dow. Maybe—
He gripped the stout, perspiring chief in a grip of steel. "Good Heaven, Matson!" he cried hoarsely. "That half billion on board! I'll swear whatever this screwy business means, it involves that. Get the visors humming to Sparks on the Flying Planet; rustle up every patrol boat between here and Jupiter."
The frantic calls to the speeding liner drew blanks. They didn't answer. "Their screens and sending apparatus must be out of commission. sir," reported the ground operator.
Matson looked ready to faint. "And she's faster than any patrol ship," he wailed. "If there's anything wrong, they'll never be able to catch her."
ON board the Flying Planet no one knew that there was anything amiss. The great spaceliner moved serenely along her appointed arc, accelerating steadily as it cleared Earth. The passengers had already adjusted themselves to the methods and routine of space traveling—aided by skilled and deft stewards—and flocked to the bar, where the milder liquors were served, or danced in the lounge to the strains of an orchestra.
Cliff was too busy at first to frequent the lounge or even to enter the control room. It was his job to set up the co-ordinates for the flight, and to feed them into the integrators. The results were flashed automatically on the controls, and corresponding impulses set the proper jets to roaring.
Underneath, in the hold of the ship, under triple seals of diamond-hard stellite, rested the precious cargo.
When he finally emerged from his cubby, it was to meet a worried-looking Sparks just leaving the control room.
"What's on your mind?" demanded Cliff. "You look off your feed."
Sparks saluted. "It's about the visors, sir. I've just been telling Captain Dow about them. They're out of commission."
"Those things happen. Better get them fixed in a hurry."
"That's just it, sir. Every tube has been blown; every line in the series and the screens themselves have been shorted and fused. I haven't nearly enough spares to do anything about it."
Cliff stopped in his tracks. "That sounds bad. How could it have happened?"
Sparks shook his head. "It might have been one of those one-in-a-million chances. Captain Dow seems to think so. But it looks to me more like a case of deliberate sabotage."
"Nonsense!" Cliff snapped. "No one has access to the screens but yourself and Captain Dow."
"Exactly, sir."
Cliff didn't like Sparks' tone as he moved hastily for the control room. In fact, the more he thought of it, the less he liked the whole picture.
Dow greeted him calmly. The two strangers were with him. Cliff pulled himself up short. "I'd like to see you alone, captain," he said significantly.
Dow said: "It's quite all right to talk in front of these gentlemen. I might as well tell you—Mr. Barlow and Mr. Scudder are undercover agents of the government. They're posing as passengers; but their actual job is to protect the specie shipment."
"Yeah!" the moon-faced man smiled blandly. "The department got a report that the outlaw, Al Barlow"—his smile broadened—"ray namesake, sort of—is gonna try an' hijack the boat somewheres outside of Jupiter."
"Yeah!" the thin, dark man agreed heavily. "It's upta us tuh see everything's jake, see?"
Cliff saw, and felt somewhat relieved. It explained the informality of their presence. True, he took an almost instant dislike to these two Secret Service operatives, and he felt sure that Dow and himself, with the assistance of their regular crew, were fully competent to take care of the noted outlaw; nevertheless, he could understand how an uneasy officialdom would have shipped their own men along.
"Sparks just told me about the screens," he told Dow.
The captain waved it aside. "Annoying, but accidents happen. We're just as well off without fussy bureaucrats sending us contradictory orders every few minutes."
Cliff grinned. This was more like Dow. He hadn't been able to place a definite finger on anything, but the crusty, strong-jawed captain hadn't seemed quite himself.
"So you don't think it's sabotage?"
"Utter nonsense! Sparks must have overloaded the lines and fused the works."
It was possible, Cliff thought; though Sparks was as good a man as any on the ether waves.
Dow bent over the controls in a gesture of dismissal. His tunic collar sagged slightly away from his weather-beaten neck. Cliff, turning to go, ejaculated involuntarily. "Hello, cap! What happened to that big wart on the back of your neck?"
Ever since they had first shipped together ten years before, Cliff had known of that wart. Dow had had it from birth, and the high collar hid it. When his second would suggest that he have it removed, Dow would run his big, capable hand inside his collar and growl: "I'd feel naked without it, Cliff. Might just as well get rid of my old woman."
Dow came up quickly at his ejaculation. Barlow made a little noise that sounded oddly like an imprecation. Scudder went sallow and pinched. His thin fingers slid into his coat pocket.
Then Barlow's hand also went into his coat pocket.
Dow said: "Why... uh... I had it operated on back home."
"Good for you! But I thought you'd never do it."
"Uh—my wife got after me finally."
The two outlaws hastened to lock the control room after Cliff left. Jem was shaking as with ague. "Jeez!" he husked. "I thought I'd 'a' had tuh burn him down. Who'd of thought Dow had a wart on the back of his neck!"
For once Al's smile deserted him. "You keep those dumb fingers o' yours away from your rayer, Jem. Yuh gotta keep your wits about yuh in this here business." He took a tiny disk out of his pocket, examined it lovingly. He became complacent again. "Lucky I think of everything. That's why I'm so good. I tapped out a message quick-like to the robot, and he responded just like I wanted. Jojo sure knew how to rig 'im up."
The robot duplicate of Captain Dow paid no attention. He went calmly and efficiently about his controls, checking, steadying, making certain that the ship was on its proper course.
CLIFF found nothing new to arouse his suspicions during the next week. Aside from the blown visor screens, the journey was smooth and uneventful. The Flying Planet lived up to its name. It careened through space at terrific speed, but antiaccelerators and gravity intensifiers kept everything normal within. The passengers complained at first at the lack of news from Earth, but since there was no help for it, they turned to the bar and to the various amusement centers on board for relief from the monotony of the voyage. The usual number of drunks had to be tactfully but firmly squelched, and the usual number of romances began to blossom forth between impressionable specimens of either sex.
There was a difference. Dow was strangely reserved, and stuck to the control room the greater part of the time. The two undercover agents were with him practically all the time. Very little of the old easygoing camaraderie manifested itself between Dow and Cliff. The captain was invariably polite, but curt and businesslike. He never sought out Cliff, as of old, and discouraged meetings as much as possible.
Cliff felt hurt, and a trifle resentful. Then he shrugged shoulders and laughed at himself. After all, the captain was laboring under a terrific responsibility. A half billion in the hold was nothing to sneeze at. There were those who would have no hesitation in wiping out a whole space fleet in order to get control of it. As for his constant association with Barlow and Scudder, that, too, was understandable. It was part of their orders, no doubt.
Several times he went below to test the seals on the treasure personally, though it was not his job. Everything was shipshape and intact.
A week out they passed as close as they would get to Mars. About twenty-three million miles. Cliff happened to be in the control room at the time, making his daily report to Dow. The two operatives were lounging in chairs as they invariably did when Cliff was due. Barlow's hands were, as usual, in his pockets.
Cliff did not like them. The dislike had been growing on him all through the trip. These men were different from any government operative he had ever met. There was something tense and watchful about them, as well as something shifty.
He had finished his report, and Dow merely nodded. Dow was getting more and more monosyllabic with him. After this trip, thought Cliff, he'd be damned if he'd ship with Dow again. Ten years evidently were enough!
As he turned to go, his eye fell on the space scanner. It was open—accidentally, as it later appeared.
A long, slim gray ship was cutting across their bow. Its rockets were jetting behind it in long, arcing streamers of fire. To Cliff's experienced eye it was obvious that the ship was blasting every ounce of acceleration it possessed.
It was a patrol ship.
Light flashes played on its dun-gray surface. The flashes were definite and staccato in their beat. Like code signals. The signals began to make a pattern to his startled gaze.
Flying Planet. Flying Planet. Heave to for boarding party. Heave to. Space patrol ship Meteor calling.
"She's ordering us to stop," gasped Cliff. "She's heading us off."
Dow lifted his head, but otherwise made no move. The other two men, however, jerked to their feet as if they were puppets on a string.
"What the hell!" Barlow cursed. His ever-present smile was wiped out as if with a rag. His pale eyes bulged on the scanner.
"A patrol ship!" husked Scudder, going a dirty greenish-yellow. "We're sunk!"
"Shut up, you fool!" Barlow said sharply. He spun on the expressionless captain. "Horn,', Dow. You know what to do."
Dow quivered: then nodded. His fingers rippled over the controls. The scanner went blank. The ship swerved and dived. Tail and side jets opened to maximum firing. In spite of anti-accelerators, Cliff felt leaden weight in his limbs. The tracery of red lights that denoted their course danced like mad. The fleet liner strained and groaned. The velocity needle spurted to three hundred and fifty miles per second, a speed faster than that ever attained by a spaceship before. If they hit the asteroid belt at that terrific speed—
Cliff forgot discipline, everything. He sprang forward, crying: "Are you crazy, captain? Don't you know what the penalty is for ignoring the signals of the space patrol?"
Barlow was short and dumpy, but he moved like chain lightning. His rayer was out, snouting toward Cliff. His body hurled between them.
"He's taking orders from me, Dunstan," he grated.
Cliff came up short. His eyes glowed; his voice was crisp and hard.
"Captain Dow is in command here under the code of the spaceways. No one can issue orders in his own control room but himself. Get out of my way, Barlow, or by all the constellations—"
Dow turned slowly. He said: "It's all right, Cliff. We know what we're doing. We saw the treasury chief before we left. That was what delayed us. He warned us to stop for no one."
"Not even a patrol ship?"
"Especially not a patrol ship. Word came through that the outlaw, Al Barlow, and his gang had surprised and captured one of the patrol. Which one was not known as yet. That way he could make contact with us without any suspicion on our part."
"Yeah, that's so!" Scudder agreed hastily.
Cliff looked from one to the other; then shrugged. "I'm sorry. If that's the case—"
He left the sentence unfinished as he spun on his heel and left the room.
Jem Scudder said: "Whew! That bird's getting too nosy."
Al Barlow pocketed his rayer, spat reflectively. "Yeah! He gave in too easy-like. He suspects something. We'll have to get rid of him."
Captain Dow said nothing.
AL was quite right. Cliff Dunstan did suspect something. But what it was he wasn't quite sure. The two Secret Service men struck false notes in the sounding board of his brain. Worse still, Captain Dow was also striking unresponsive chords. He certainly wasn't himself. Cliff had been too intimate with him for ten years not to note the discords. And there was the matter of that wart. Ho had almost spoken, and then held back the words. His keen eyes hadn't seen the slightest scar. Surgery was skillful; but, after all, the wart was supposed to have been removed within the week.
It may sound surprising that Cliff didn't grasp the whole truth at once. That was because such robots as Jojo manufactured were strictly against the rules of the World Council. Legitimate robots were obviously that, and nothing more. Either metal men and women, or things of wax carrying a record plate in their foreheads with name and number. It was to avoid any such possibility as had now arisen that the Council had promulgated the rule and decreed severe penalties for its breaking. And even so, no one had ever done the remarkable, life-like work of Jojo.
For the next few days Cliff came and went in the control room as usual. He said no more about the episode of the patrol ship. He noted, however, that the scanner clicked shut every time he opened the door.
Their course had swerved back to normal. The Meteor had been left helplessly behind. Cliff watched the recording lights without seeming to do so; and the two alleged agents watched him. Dow was polite and spoke as little as possible.
But elsewhere Cliff stirred into activity. He spoke guardedly to men whom he knew to be loyal and close-mouthed. Men like Turgot, the chief engineer; Dorsey, the second steward; Galligan, the purser; all old-timers who had sailed the spaceways for years. He said nothing much—he really had nothing definite to go on—but he intimated that poor Captain Dow was not quite himself, that the two passengers who were always closeted with him were queer fish, and that perhaps—perhaps—He always let his voice trail off meaningfully at that.
With Sparks, however, he was a bit more explicit. Together they checked the fused circuits. Cliff took a deep breath.
"You're right, Sparks, this was deliberate sabotage. There were queer goings on in this ship. I've a feeling something's going to happen before we hit Callisto."
Then he told Sparks about the vast treasure on board. Thereby he broke every rule in the code. If found out, he was through on the spaceways. But. Sparks was a good man, and he had to count on someone.
The visor operator's eyes bulged. He whistled softly. "But, gee, Mr. Dunstan, what can we do?"
"Nothing; just sit tight and watch. Any false move and we'd both land in the clink with our licenses just scraps of paper."
The Flying Planet was close now to the asteroid belt. The regular plotted course that all ships en route to Jupiter took switched here from the smooth arc of flight to a path lifted some twenty-three degrees above the ecliptic. This was to avoid the swarming little bodies that might spell disaster and crack-up to a ship whose maneuverability was approximately one second of arc per hundred miles.
In the control room things were beginning to happen. Al pored over charts, pale-blue eyes blinking with the effort. His stubby finger traced red dots; his voice barked instructions.
"O.K., Captain Zachary Dow," he said with jeering sarcasm. "You're about reaching the finish. Soon you'll be just a lot o' melted wax and twisted coils. Can't say I'm sorry, neither. You hadn't oughta made that guy Dunstan suspicious."
"Not my fault," the robot said expressionlessly. "I do whatever my recording mechanisms direct."
"No back talk." growled Al. "Go on an' change the co-ordinates o' flight. We're swinging in tuh Hidalgo, our base." He chuckled. "Ain't no patroller ever found our hide-out, eh, Jemmy?" When he called Scudder Jemmy that was always a sign he was in a good humor. "Best little asteroid in the whole damn haystack. Swings in close the Mars so's we kin make our raids; then way the hell and gone out to Saturn, while the patrollers almost knock their silly heads together searchin' the reg'lar belt for us."
But the thin, dark man looked anxious. "How about this here Dunstan guy? He's due here in five to ten minutes. When he sees the change o' course;—"
Al's eyes were pale, washed-out pebbles. "We're taking that bozo right now. We're too close to take any more chances."
CLIFF walked in, alert as usual; but not expecting anything particularly startling. It was too soon, according to his calculations, for any new developments to arise.
So that he was taken wholly unprepared.
The door sealed tight behind him, as it always did. Barlow sprawled in his chair, as negligent and as gross as ever. Scudder, however, did not appear immediately in his line of vision. Dow stood as usual at the controls, and did not raise his head.
"I wish to report everything normal, Captain Dow," Cliff began in his most formal tone. "As for the integrations—"
He saw then the shifting red flames on the control screen. The bright little points were tracing a new arc, diving directly into the thick of the asteroid belt, into the area strewn with the wrecks of ships that had ventured too close and met disaster.
"Man alive!" he exclaimed. "You're way off your course. You'll crack us up sure as fate."
Dow said tonelessly. "I'm handling this, Cliff."
Cliff's gesture was sudden. A short, stubby, rayer swept into his hand, covered both Dow and the sprawling Barlow. "You're wrong, Captain Dow." His voice was edged with durasteel. "I'm handling this from now on. Sorry to have to do this, but the whole set-up is entirely too fishy. Either these two alleged Secret Service birds have some hold over you or you've been taken in like a child. They're no more operatives than I am. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Barlow was Barlow—Al Barlow, though, not Frank."
The seated outlaw sprawled lazily. He seemed to be enjoying himself. "A pretty good guesser, hey? So what're you goin' to do about it?"
"This!" Cliff snapped. "Put you and your precious friend in irons for the rest of—"
"Drop that rayer, wise guy," snarled Jem Scudder behind him, "or I'll blast you into dust." Jem plastered against the wall next the door, stepped out. He held a black rayer in his hand.
Cliff let his weapon fall slowly. He had been outmaneuvered.
"What do you think you're going to do?" he demanded.
Al got up. His smile had a baby innocence about it. "We sorta thought we'd land the whole caboodle on Hidalgo an' make you birds sweat a while helpin' improve our hide-out afore we bumped you off. But you're too smart fer your own good. Can't afford tuh have you around while we're dropping. It'll take about six hours yet. So we'll get rid of yuh now. Dow'll have an emergency lock opened an' we'll drop yuh out." He grinned. "Garbage, so to speak; li'ble tuh leave a bad smell if it hangs around."
"Should I blast 'im now?" queried Jem.
"You was always a fool," Al grunted. "That there rayer'd knock our controls tuh hell an' gone." He reached in his pocket, took out a flexible length of metal rod, hefted it lovingly. "A sap's better."
Cliff knew he had no chance. These men were cold killers. With a half billion at stake, he could expect no mercy.
"You're a bigger fool than your partner," he said quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen a small, double-disked instrument fall to the floor as Al had taken out the blackjack. It made no noise on the silent-teed covering, and it came to rest about five feet from himself. "In the first place, I expected something like this. Right now Sparks, the chief engineer and the purser are bringing up a crew gang. If I'm not out in five minutes, they'll come in after me."
"The old space racket," Al said contemptuously. "That sorta tripe was pulled back in the Middle Ages. Yuh don't expect us tuh fall fer that?"
"In the second place," Cliff went on, trying to inch his feet imperceptibly along the floor, "you've forgotten all about Captain Dow. No matter what hold you may have over him, he won't permit me to be killed."
He really banked on Dow for a diversion, long enough for him to get his hands on that tiny disk.
THE diversion came; but the manner of it was so unexpected and surprising that for the moment Cliff just stood and gaped.
Al and Jem were laughing. More, they literally howled. The control room rocked with their merriment; and Captain Dow made no move.
"The poor dope's gonna appeal tuh Dow's finer instinc's," choked Al. "Can yuh tie that, Jemmy?"
The thin, dark man almost doubled up. "Jojo sure is good. He fooled him brown. Even your best friends can't tell the difference." He went off into a new fit, pawed blindly in his pocket for a handkerchief.
Cliff stared from one to the other as though they had gone crazy. "What's so funny?" he demanded. And meanwhile, stalling for time, he managed to get closer to the disk. One dive—
"Funny!" wheezed Al. "Yuh dummox, that there ain't Dow. Dow's back on Earth, where we conked 'im. That there's a robot we fixed up tuh take his place."
The unutterable humor of it gripped him again, and he threw back his head and exploded. Jem was wiping the tears out of his eyes.
Cliff dived then. He scooped up the disk, pressed frantically. He knew what it was—a remote-control unit for transmitting orders to robots not covered by their internal, self-acting mechanism. He punched out rapid commands in the universal code.
Al's head snapped forward; his eyes widened with sudden rage and alarm. He whipped up his blackjack, shouted a warning to Jem. Jem struggled wildly with his layer.
Two streams of crackling, incandescent flame spurted across the control room. Al, metal rod uplifted, seemed to break in two. Jem screamed terribly and dropped in his tracks.
The robot Captain Dow held the still-sizzling rayer in his hand; he looked down at it without expression, then thrust it back into his belt.
"Well done, old-timer!" Cliff approved. His limbs felt a little shaky. "Dow himself couldn't have done better."
There were hammerings, shoutings outside the sealed door. Cliff pulled himself together, pressed the opening mechanism.
Sparks and Turgot came tumbling into the room, riot blasters thrusting forward. "We heard a racket, sir," Sparks cried. "What's happened? Are you all right?"
Cliff said calmly: "Everything's under control. Captain Dow's just killed the two most notorious outlaws in the system—Al Barlow and his henchman, Jem Scudder."
Sparks gasped. "But... but," he stammered, "I thought you said he—"
"Captain Dow," Cliff interrupted smoothly, "was playing them along until they exposed themselves. It was a grand piece of work on his part."
He turned and saluted the robot. "Now that it is all over, captain, I suppose you will return the ship to its proper course."
"Naturally," the robot assented gravely, and moved quietly to the controls.
Cliff released his breath. Everything was going to be all right. Zachary Dow was his friend as well as commander. Dow's record of never having missed a voyage would not be marred by any act of his. Dow had started the trip, and Dow would finish it.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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