Part 2

"I wrote it myself." A grin spread over Allers' coarse red countenance. "Just to keep suspicion from me. You see, Grant, I was with old Conway when he stumbled on the pitchblend pocket, and I knew the fortune it contained. But when Conway died, I didn't have enough money to finance an expedition here. So as soon as I heard his daughter was going to outfit a ship on his life insurance, I joined up." He laughed harshly. "You've been such fools! Night after night, during these six months, I've been bringing necessary equipment from the ship to this hide-out. Oxygen, food, metal, this little auxiliary motor, and fuel to run it. When you had done all the work of cleaning out the pocket, I cracked the main intake valve, volunteered to get word through to Bowman's Crater. And while you were waiting, I set my traps along the trail."

Allers nodded complacently, drew a small, complicated piece of machinery from his pocket.

"Here's the spare intake valve," he said. "Harris and the girl will be overjoyed to see dear old Allers return. They won't be suspecting anything and should be easy." He patted the heat gun at his side. "The ship and the million in radium ore will be mine with no trouble at all. And there're places on Venus or Mars where no questions are asked, so long as you've the money to spend."

"But what's holding us here?" Grant exclaimed.

Allers smiled thinly. "Think it over," he suggested. "You'll have three hours before your heating units give out, as Kennerly's did. And even if you do find out the cause, you won't be able to do anything about it." He strode easily past the helpless figures, unaffected by the mysterious force. "Good-bye, gentlemen! Enjoy yourselves!" A moment later he had disappeared in the gloom.

* * * * *

Left to themselves, the trapped men renewed their struggles, but to no avail. Grant felt as though his feet and hands were caught between two boards, able to slide sideways but neither forward and backward, nor up and down. He glanced over his shoulder. The others were in ridiculous positions, like some bizarre Laocoon group. Some, like him, had leaped clear of the floor when caught. Others had one foot or one hand raised, were unable to lower them; some, with their guns half-drawn, could not continue to pull the weapons from their holsters or shove them back. Miller, hands and feet arrested in a flying tackle, groaned.

"This is worse than before," he muttered. "I could at least jump up and down the other way. Now, without being able to lift our feet, we're rooted to one spot. And my heating unit's two hours gone already."

Grant stared at the frantic man. Like some queer piece of action sculpture they seemed, arms and legs raised. And back aboard the _Comet_ Joan and Harris would surely admit Allers. Once inside, he could cover them with his gun, replace the broken valve, and take off for Venus.

"We'll have to go at this logically," he said. "We just saw Allers walk past us without being affected. Anybody notice anything unusual about him?"

There was a moment's silence, then one of the space-hands spoke up.

"He didn't have on gravity shoes or radium-insulation gloves, if that means anything."

"They're both lead," Grant muttered. "And ... by all space! I think I've got it! Look! The temperature here is only a couple of degrees above absolute zero. And though the inside of our suits are warmed, insulated, the soles of our shoes, the outside of our thick lead gloves, must be near that temperature! Lead, at six above absolute zero, takes on super-conductivity. No resistance to electricity! Weak currents become immensely powerful!"

"Super-conductivity?" Miller repeated. "But what in hell's that got to do with our being caught here? We've got to get free, and damn soon, before our heating units give out!"

"Look," Grant snapped. "He's got magnets set in the walls of this gorge! And when the lead on our hands and feet, in a state of super-conductivity, cuts the fields of the magnets, a powerful current's set up in 'em! Set up in such a direction as to oppose the motion! Like the armature of a shorted dynamo! Get it? We can move only in the direction of the lines of force! Sideways! Just like the magnet that caught you, buried beneath your feet, kept you in the vertical plane! Super-conductivity, and magnets! That's what's got us!"

"Knowing what it is doesn't help," Miller grated. "We can't get our heat-guns free, and even if we could, we wouldn't dare turn them on our hands and feet! Looks like we're here to stay until our heating units wear down and we freeze! We're finished, Grant! Finished!"

* * * * *

Grant swore. His hands and feet, inside the space-suit, were warm, but the outer lead gloves that were a part of every radium miner's equipment, and the thick lead soles of their gravity shoes, were at approximately six above absolute zero. A degree, or even half a degree, of warmth, and super-conductivity would cease. They would be free! Their lives, and Joan Conway's fate, depended upon those few precious degrees. Desperately Grant tried to pull his heat-gun from its holster, but to no avail. And the leaden gloves, the gravity shoes, were securely fastened to his space-suit. No chance of removing them without cutting wires or filing bolts.

Grant moved his hands experimentally. They slid sideways, following the lines of magnetic force that crossed the passage, though at different levels; one on a level with the butt of his gun, the other higher and extended in front of his body. Backward and forward motion was also impossible, since that, too, would be contrary to the lines of force. Suddenly Grant stiffened. Arrested motion....

Extending his arm as far as possible without raising it, he crashed his hand against the holstered heat gun that hung at his waist. Again and again the lead-sheathed fist struck the heavy holster in a rain of blows. Miller, watching wide-eyed, shook his head.

"What is it?" he muttered. "You ... you're nuts! If that gun should go off, it'd rip open your suit, kill you!"

"Better than freezing, anyhow," Grant panted. "And if this works...." He redoubled his blows, crashing hand against gun-butt. "Arrested motion gives heat. Like pounding a hammer against an anvil. Only need a degree or so at most. I ... Ah!" He twisted his hand about, found that he could move it freely.

Quickly, before the heat radiated off, Grant drew his heat-gun, focused it on the floor of the defile. Under the lambent blue bolt, the rock began to glow red, waves of heat radiated upward. All at once Grant found himself falling, and his feet struck the glowing rock. The lead soles of his shoes melting like butter on the white-hot rock, he stumbled toward Miller, turned the heat blast on a spot near the latter's feet. Within a few moments the heat had restored resistance to the lead and Miller was free.

"Release the others!" Grant shouted. "And then make tracks to the _Comet_! I'm going on ahead! Hurry! We've got to reach the ship before Allers takes off for Venus!" Plunging into the shadowy gloom, he headed toward the trail.

* * * * *

Ken Grant had little memory of that wild race across the Cerean Darkside. The thin starlight ... the insane landscape ... the sprawling shadows ... all these made a jumbled montage in his mind. Vaguely he remembered racing onward, onward, muscles aching, until he saw red flashes of light ahead. The _Comet's_ rockets, warming up preparatory to taking off!

Desperately Grant lunged down the slope toward the ship. Now it was before him, a sleek, slender shape, glowing in the crimson flare of the rockets. Grant gripped the handle of the airlock, sunk flush in the hull, and tugged. The outer door swung open. Closing it behind him, he threw open the inner one and burst into the cabin, gun in hand. Before him stood Joan, very pale, chin high. Harris lay upon the floor, blood seeping from a gash on his temple. All this Grant took in with one swift glance, but before he could move he felt the muzzle of a gun dig into his back. Allers, standing to one side of the airlock as he entered, held him covered.

"Drop your gun!" Allers shouted to make himself heard through Grant's helmet.

Helpless, Grant obeyed, then threw back the transparent plastic dome that covered his head.

"Over there against the wall! Next to the girl!" Allers ordered. "I don't know how you got free, but I'm not staying to investigate! We're leaving for Venus!" He moved toward the controls, bent over them, keeping Grant and Joan covered with his heat gun. Grant laughed harshly. A nice mess he'd made of things!

One of Allers' hands was on the main control, the other gripped the heat gun. An idea began to take form in Grant's mind. The cold, the bitter cold just above absolute zero, was what Allers had counted on to trap them. Perhaps it might save them as well. He hadn't been in the cabin long enough for the cold to wear off. Grant drew a deep breath.

"Shoot, damn you!" he roared, hurtling forward.

Face set in a vulpine grin, Allers pressed the trigger of the heat-gun. Joan's horrified scream ripped through the cabin like a jagged knife blade.

"Ken!" she cried. "Ken!"

The ray of the heat-gun was like a white hot lance, thrusting against Grant's chest as he plunged toward Allers. In spite of the space-suit's insulation it would normally have charred him to a crisp, but the suit, bitterly cold from the fierce temperature of Darkside, sucked up the heat like a sponge. Grant felt as though a glowing brand had touched his chest, the pain was terrible, but the frigid cold of the suit absorbed the full force of the heat blast long enough for him to reach his opponent.

One blow of Grant's lead-gloved fist caught Allers' face, spun him about. The heat-gun flew from his hand, slithered under the big control board. Bruised, bloody, snarling in savage rage, Allers shook himself, hurtled forward, fists flailing.

Grant, encased in the heavy space-suit, was clumsy, awkward. Allers circled him like a tiger stalking its prey. Darting in, his fist would crash into his opponent's face before Grant could raise his heavy arms to guard. And by the time he was ready for a return blow, Allers was dancing out of reach, a grinning, ugly phantom.

* * * * *

Doggedly, Grant pursued his elusive antagonist. His face was a battered pulp from Allers' blows and the space-suit, the gravity shoes seemed to weigh tons. Except for that first blow he had not reached his opponent once, and Allers was laughing mockingly as he methodically cut Grant's face to ribbons. The latter was beginning to stumble now, had to force his limbs to move. If only he could corner Allers! Smash his fist into that evil, taunting countenance.

Knotted knuckles crashed flush against Grant's jaw, before he could raise his clumsy arm to block the blow. Backward he tottered against the wall, groggy, and through half-closed eyes saw Allers spring forward for the kill. But as Allers leaped toward him, another figure ran across the cabin, seized his arm. Joan! Clinging with all her weight to the space-rat, holding him back.

"Now, Ken!" she cried. "Now!"

With a single motion of his squat, powerful frame Allers shook the girl off, spun her across the cabin against the iron bulkhead, but in that moment Grant had reached him. His lead-encased hands shot out, gripped Allers' throat. The cold of the leaden gloves burned the man's neck like a brand and he screamed in agony. Tighter and tighter Grant's hands locked about his throat, heedless of the blows Allers rained upon him, and the agonized scream turned into a gurgling moan.

"Think of Kennerly!" Grant growled. "Dying out there in the cold! Think of him, you rat!"

Then a million stars danced before Grant's eyes, and he slumped back, half-conscious. Through wavering mists he saw Allers stagger to his feet, gripping a heavy wrench. The space-rat's groping hands had encountered it, brought the weapon down upon his opponent's head with brutal force. It was all like a dream, now, to Grant. Stunned, helpless, he saw Allers moving toward him, face set in a furious grin, the heavy wrench raised for a final terrible blow.

Instinctively Grant twisted sideways, his fingers fumbled with the emergency outlet of his space-suit's oxygen tank. On his shoulders it had escaped the heat-ray's blast and Grant knew it was still full of semi-liquid oxygen, under heavy pressure.

Allers' muscles were tensing, the heavy wrench was about to descend in a crushing, deadly stroke. It took all of Grant's failing strength to twist the outlet of the air valve.

The cloud of whitish vapor spurted from the space-suit's outlet in an icy stream. For just an instant Allers stood motionless as the blast of semi-liquid oxygen struck him. A howl of agony broke from his lips, the wrench fell from his half-frozen fingers. Then, crimsoned features strangely set, body rigid, Allers toppled to the floor.

"Ken!" Joan whispered. "Ken, you ... you're all right?"

"O ... okay!" His gaze lingered on her piquant features, with their firm, level eyes, brave set of chin. "You know," he said slowly, "I believe that crack on the head knocked me silly. So silly that for a moment I actually believed you wouldn't mind if I ki...." He paused as Miller and the rest of the crew pounded excitedly on the massive outer door of the airlock.

"Let them wait," Joan Conway said peremptorily, "and finish what you were saying!" Then, as he hesitated, "Orders, Mr. Grant!"

"Aye, aye, Commander," Grant grinned. "I was going to say I believed you wouldn't mind if I kissed you. Like this!"

End of Project Gutenberg's Satellite of Fear, by Frederic Arnold Kummer