Chapter VI

Sometime later Norman was awakened by a rude hand shaking his shoulder.

Koal was grinning down at him.

"Wake up," said Koal. "You've been dead to the world for thirty-six hours, and the paymaster's here."

Norman sat up, reached for his trousers, which, to his surprise, were neatly hung over the back of a chair. Drawing on his clothes, he went into the kitchen. It had been cleaned, put to rights. Further exploration revealed that his things from the _Jupiter_ had been delivered and stowed away in the closet and built-in bureau. Hordes of people must have trailed in and out of his apartment while he slept. He decided to prop a chair against the knob the next time he went to bed.

The Martian was watching him, an amused glint in his black eyes. "There is a bolt on your door, you know," he assured the young man.

A subdued buzzing announced a visitor.

"That's probably the paymaster now," said Koal. He opened the door, revealing a Mercurian with a black satchel in his hand.

The Mercurian said, "Norman Saint Clair?"

The young man nodded.

"First," said the Mercurian, opening the satchel, "here are your papers." He handed him a yellow envelope which contained a book similar to the one the T.I.S. had issued when he left Earth.

"The individual shares from the _Jupiter's_ cargo," the Mercurian droned on, "plus the Terrestial warship amount to twenty thousand notes." He handed Norman a sheaf of yellow bills.

"Roughly," Koal interposed, "that is equal in value to twenty-five thousand Earth notes."

"Twenty-five thousand Earth notes!" gasped Norman. "It's a fortune."

"Sign here, please," said the Mercurian, handing him a ledger.

Norman affixed his name in a daze.

"That doesn't, of course," added the Mercurian, "include your share from the sale of the slaves. They are to be auctioned off at fourteen hundred." He snapped shut his satchel, bowed himself out.

"What time is it now?" asked Norman.

"We've time for something to eat before going twelve-hundred."

The slave market resembled an open-air theatre minus the seats. The same cosmopolitan crowd which Norman had observed on the streets eddied about the block. He caught sight of a figure clad in civilian clothes. It was Vermeer, the black-headed Outlander whom he had been sure was instrumental in the _Jupiter's_ capture.

"Who's that?" he asked the Martian pointing to Vermeer.

"A Venusian Export Lines man. The Dohlmites needed an outlet for much of the material they captured. They established their own line of trading ships under a Venusian register because they are so much less strict on Venus. By the way, keep away from anyone connected with that company. Never talk sedition in front of them. Those men belong to the Dohlmites body and soul."

Just then the auctioneer, a lean, yellow-skinned Venusian, moved to the block. Two men led Dr. Pequod from the wings. The flaming shorts were gone. He was clad in exactly nothing. The doctor stalked to the block, glared at the buccaneers who had clustered around him.

"What am I offered?" began the auctioneer. "A little scrawny but sound and with a heart of gold."

The free booters cackled.

"A hundred notes," said the representative of the Dohlmites dryly. He was seated on the platform with the auctioneer.

"A hundred notes. I'm offered a hundred notes. Who'll say a hundred and ten--A hundred and five? Going for a hundred notes. Going. Going. Gone!" He cracked his gavel down. Dr. Pequod was led back into the wings.

The next three passengers were purchased by the agent of the Dohlmites for the standard one hundred notes. There was some lively bidding for the ex-chef of the _Jupiter_, who was finally knocked down to a big-bellied pirate. He hauled his prize off with triumph.

Then Norman's heart jumped. The sixth passenger to be led to the block was Jennifer. She was barefooted, the metal band gleaming about her naked ankle. A cape had been thrown about her erect shoulders.

The auctioneer lifted it off. There was nothing but girl underneath.

"Two hundred notes," a voice shouted from Norman's elbow.

* * * * *

Norman swung about, recognized Vermeer, the Venusian Export Lines agent.

"Hello," said Vermeer, "I see you've joined us."

Norman nodded shortly. "So it was you who killed the T.I.S. agent. I suspected it all along."

Vermeer merely smiled. The auctioneer cried, "Two hundred notes. Two hundred and ten," as another man bid. "Twenty. Twenty. Thirty." The bidding was growing lively.

"Three hundred," said Vermeer.

"Three hundred and five," Norman echoed.

"Five hundred," said Vermeer without blinking an eye.

Realizing that the two men were bidding against each other the rest dropped out. The audience seemed to settle back in expectancy. Men had been known to pay the complete prize money of a venture for a girl.

"Five hundred and five," Norman said in a determined voice.

"Really," said Vermeer; "you're wasting your time. I intend to have that girl. From one venture you can't possibly have enough money to outbid me. One thousand notes," he addressed the auctioneer.

"A thousand notes, I'm offered," chanted the auctioneer.

"A thousand notes. Do I hear more?"

Norman bit his lip. It was only too true that Vermeer could outbid him. With a sudden grim determination he balled his fist, walloped Vermeer in the temple. All his indignation was behind that blow, all the bone and gristle of six-foot-two of lecturer on Ancient History. Vermeer went down and out like a pole axed steer.

"One thousand and one," shouted Norman triumphantly.

For a moment a hush gripped the audience, then the men roared with laughter. No one liked the Venusian Export Lines men, the pet of the Dohlmites.

"Going," chanted the auctioneer, "going. Gone! To the impetuous gentleman with the good right fist!"

For the life of him, Norman couldn't help swaggering a little as he went up to claim the girl.

The auctioneer tossed Jennifer her cape. She snatched it closely about herself, leaped down from the platform.

Norman counted out the bills. Jennifer, without glancing at her purchaser, walked swiftly ahead of him through the throng.

A pirate reached out, clapped him on the shoulder. "She's worth it," he chortled. "She's worth it." But Norman was being beset by doubts. He hadn't liked the steely glint in the girl's blue eyes. It foreboded trouble. Koal joined them chuckling, as they left the market place.

Once outside Jennifer stopped, swung on Norman. "All right," she said in a suppressed voice. "You've bought me. But you'll regret it as long as you live, you, you--renegade!"

Her tone brought him up short. "Of all the ungrateful wenches," he flared; "you are the prize. I joined the Dohlmites with the express purpose of rescuing you. I plank down one thousand notes cash to save you from what in the old days was considered a fate worse than death."

The girl's features registered surprise, incredulity, contrition. She started to say, "I didn't know," but Norman was thoroughly wound up.

"Of course, I realize that view is no longer entertained by the best informed people, but if you are so anxious for Vermeer to buy you, I'll go throw a bucket of water in his face and present you to him with my compliments."

Indignation swept away all other emotions from the girl's features. "I think you're horrible," she said and turned her back on him.

Koal suddenly shouted, "Look out, Norman!"

The young man swung around, saw Vermeer boring down on him. The agent had a poisoned needle gun in his hand. His temple was swollen, his eyes furious. Scarcely three steps away he swung the needle gun up.

Norman heard the weapon _plop_ softly. At the same instant something swished between him and the murderous dart gun. Jennifer, he realized, had pulled the cloak from her bare shoulders, flung it between them.

He snatched the cloak, flipped it over Vermeer's head and shoulders. His rush bowled the man over backwards. The dart gun dropped to the pavement. Norman snatched it up just as Vermeer flung the cloak off his head, sprang to his feet.

"Kill him!" shouted Koal. "Quick!"

Vermeer's face blanched. He turned, began to run back toward the slave market, bent over, zig-zagging wildly.

Norman brought the dart gun up, then let it fall helplessly at his side.

"I can't do it," he said.

He picked up the cloak, started to return it to Jennifer. His eye lit on a slender, three-cornered needle stuck halfway through the heavy material. He pulled the poisoned dart out. One scratch from that deadly missile would have killed him. The girl's instinctive action had saved his life. He felt weak.

"I'm sorry for what I said, Jennifer."

"For heaven's sake," she cried; "apologize later, if you must, but give me back my cloak now."