Chapter XI

Preparations for the invasion of Ganymede went forward during the next six sleeping periods. The Dohlmites had been unsuccessful in their investigation, and had withdrawn behind their force wall, transmitting their orders through the agents of the Venusian Export Lines.

Then the date of sailing was set. Norman received his orders to report aboard the _Rocket_ within twenty-four hours.

He paced back and forth across the living-room of his apartment. Even if the blight did sweep the Dohlmites, he thought, with the Sinn Feiners away on Ganymede they wouldn't be able to take advantage of their opportunity.

Jennifer entered from the bedroom, glanced at him worriedly, said, "Norman, relax or you'll have a nervous breakdown."

He flung himself on the couch. "If only we knew what's happening behind the force wall. The Dohlmites are taking this so queerly. I haven't seen one on the streets for days."

The buzzer announced someone at the door. He leaped to his feet, answered it anxiously. Koal came inside. There was a flicker of triumph in the Martian's eyes.

"The sailing," he announced, "has been indefinitely postponed!"

Norman sank on the couch, only to spring up again.

"Something's happened on the hill!"

Koal nodded his head. "That's what I think."

"We've got to know what it is," cried Norman. "If it's the blight, and it leaves only one plant man alive, he's still master of every one of us." He paused, bit his lip, said, "Koal, issue the green suits to a select force. Have them ready to storm the hill. I'm going to reconnoitre the force wall."

"Watch your step," the Martian cautioned. "This may be a trap." He turned on his heel, left the apartment.

"Norman," said Jennifer looking utterly miserable, "do be careful."

He kissed her, said, "I will," and started for the door. A heady excitement was pounding in his blood.

From the apartment he drove to the gate in the force wall.

Two parallel lines of yellow intersected the silver track at right angles and indicated the segment which could be shut off. Just within the wall he saw a small cage like a switchman's shack on a railroad. But the plant man who operated the gate was not there.

He frowned, swept the hill above with his eyes. Not a figure stirred on any of the airy balconies. Nothing moved in the streets. The city of the Dohlmites was a ghost town.

A feeling that he was being watched made his heart beat faster.

He caught his breath. For a moment he thought he had detected a faint movement in one of the doorways. Was this a trap after all? Minutes slipped past but the movement was not repeated. The high noon sun beat down on the empty street.

He got out of the car, walked cautiously toward the force wall, halted at the yellow stripe. It was maddening to be stopped by that intangible emanation from the silver track.

He started to turn away, paused, staring rigidly at the hill. A man was running blindly away down the curving road which led between the plant men's houses. Even at that distance, Norman could detect something peculiar about the man's flight. He would run several hundred yards, stumble, fall, drag himself to his feet and go on.

As he drew closer, Norman identified him as a plant man. He seemed to be making for the gate in the force wall. He reached the glassite shack, staggered inside. Norman could see him fumble weakly with the switch. The Dohlmite was shutting down the current at the gate.

Still with that strange intentness, the plant man lurched out again, stumbled, fell. He tried to rise, fell back. No flicker of emotion betrayed the terrible fear which must be driving him onward. He pulled himself to his hands and knees, began to crawl through the gate. He reached the silver ribbon, keeping in the center of the yellow lines. His eyes stared straight ahead. He wobbled across the force wall, kept on. Crawling on hands and knees, he passed within ten feet of Norman and didn't seem to see him.

Twenty yards beyond Norman his wobble became more pronounced, like a toy running down. Then he seemed to hesitate. His arms and legs suddenly gave way. He collapsed. This time he didn't try to rise, but lay still, lay still as death. Norman shuddered and looked away.

From head to heels the plant man was covered with the red, rust-like scales.

* * * * *

With a start Norman realized that the way into the city lay open before him. He drew his breath sharply, walked slowly between the parallel yellow lines. His nerves quivered as he stepped across the silver track. He was inside at last. He set out up the hill.

As Norman reached the first houses, the toll exacted by the scabrous red blight became apparent. It had swept the population on the hill like a plague. Plant men lay in the streets, on the balconies, in the houses, their bodies scaly with rust. It had even begun to spread to the festooned hanging gardens.

Crowning the apex of the hill was a tremendous structure pillared like the incredibly ancient Grecian temples of which a few pictures still survived. A feeling of elation seized him. This surely was the building which housed the death broadcasting machine. This was the end of his journey.

A voice behind him shouted, "Stop, Saint Clair!"

He spun around.

Vermeer was toiling up the hill behind him. The agent of the Venusian Export Lines had his dart gun drawn and levelled. He halted half a dozen steps from Norman. He said, "There's always a reckoning, Saint Clair."

Wildly, Norman speculated on his chance should he hurl himself at Vermeer in the face of the poisoned needles. He knew there was none.

"You've had a remarkable run of luck," Vermeer smiled. "But by the laws of chance, it was bound to turn."

Norman didn't reply. The explosion of a rocket shell suddenly rent the air, followed by the crackle of dum-dum fire. It ascended faintly unreal from the human colony below them.

"My men," Vermeer explained, "are attacking yours. But it doesn't matter who wins. The real contest is being decided up here between us two. It's rather like ancient times, with which you're so familiar, Saint Clair, when battles were decided between two champions. You see, I took the precaution to close the gate before I followed you."

Norman could feel the drag of his own dart gun at his waist, considered throwing himself to one side, snatching for his gun. Vermeer, he realized bitterly, had only to pull his trigger.

"I wonder," Vermeer went on, "if you realize the stakes we're playing for? The man who remains alive within the force wall can control the solar system." He laughed exultantly, drew a careful bead on Norman's chest.

He's going to fire, thought Norman. Even at that distance, he could see the knuckles of the agent's hand whiten as they contracted about the pommel of the dart gun.

A fantastic hope crystallized in his mind. Conception and action was simultaneous.

"Now!" Norman breathed, and fell as if dead.

He fell just a fraction of a second before Vermeer pulled the trigger. He heard the poisoned dart whistle over his shoulder, then he hit the street with a jarring thud and lay still. He daren't breathe, daren't flicker an eyelash.

It would never occur to Vermeer that he could have missed at twenty short paces. The very deadliness of the darts precluded any necessity of administering a _coup de grace_. Norman could hear the shuffle of Vermeer's approaching steps. Had the trick worked?

Vermeer's foot nudged him in the ribs.

Like the recoil of a spring, Norman grabbed the agent's ankles, threw his weight against Vermeer's knees. The man toppled backward. Norman swarmed on top of him.

Vermeer had been suspicious. He still retained the dart gun in his hand. Norman seized his wrist. They struggled fiercely, silently in the empty streets, their only audience the plant men covered with blight, full of the indifference of death.

With a surge of exultation Norman felt Vermeer's wrist weaken. He threw his weight on the weapon, bent it downward. His finger covered the trigger. He squeezed.

Vermeer shuttered and lay still.

Norman crouched backward off the dead agent to his feet. The sound of firing in the human colony was silent. Whatever the outcome of the battle had been, he realized, it was over.

* * * * *

What was it Vermeer had said? "The man who remains alive within the force wall can control the Solar System." He, Norman Saint Clair, who had set out from Earth to lecture on Ancient History in distant Ganymede, was as much master of the System at this moment as if the battle had already been fought.

He had no difficulty locating the death broadcasting machine. It was housed in a tremendous hall in the Dohlmite temple of science. It was a delicate affair of tubes and wires. The cylinders, he saw, were fed into it automatically so that it could broadcast its messages of death with machine gun rapidity.

He seized a chair, savagely smashed the machine into fragments. It was a weapon of enslavement. No good could come of it. At length, he paused. The cylinders and the force wall remained, but they could wait.

With a growing sense of triumph, he left the temple of science, retraced his steps down the hill between the silent houses.

While still half way to the gate, he made out hundreds of men crowded just beyond the force wall. As he drew closer he recognized Koal and Acpsahme in the front ranks. He went into the glassite shack, threw the switch that shut off the segment of the wall. He forced himself to walk across the silver track, say in a calm voice:

"The Dohlmites are dead, Koal. The machine is destroyed. We're free."

A savage cheer rang up from the men. Runners left to inform the rest of the city. Koal seized his hand, nearly wrung it off.

Acpsahme said, "The men of the Venusian Export Lines attacked us. They bit off more than they could chew."

"Pepperell? Where's Pepperell?" asked Norman.

"Here," replied the T.I.S. agent.

"Pepperell," said Norman. "Get in touch with the Terrestial Intelligence Service over the radio at once. You know their code. Tell them to send an accredited ambassador of the Earth Congress in the Empire's fastest space ship toward Neptune, but don't reveal our location. We'll contact the ship beyond the orbit of Jupiter. I want," he said with a sudden laugh, "to arrange a surprise for the ambassador."