Garrett’s cheek smarted; the effect of the ointment was wearing off. As his nightacquired sunburn tingled, he glanced at Hartle’s prop pistol. More of the picture began to shape up as clearly as though beams were focusing on a Cassellite screen in front of him. “Valentinez had perfected the control of lovestonite,” he said slowly. “He was fool enough to show his device to you.”
A half dozen men filed into the room. They were a crummy lot—the scrapings of the dives in Luna City, or those outcasts that gravitate to extra work in Sollywood as they used to drift into the Foreign Legion. They all held pistols.
Garrett lounged back, both hands comfortably in his pockets. His left encountered the knife which had missed him on his entrance to Metropolis Pictures. Yes, there was even that left if everything else failed him, though if he could bring himself to use it— “Valentinez thought,” he went on calmly, “that he had simply invented a device for self-portraiture. You realized that what he had actually created was a gadget for storing sunlight and releasing it at will in any desired strength. You—or someone behind you—began the processing of vast amounts of lovestonite. Metal and explosives are unobtainable for weapons; but the mirrors that you have manufactured, when the right electromagnetic hookup is attached to them, will arm a host that can set a city ablaze and blind its every defender. There are tiny lovestonite ‘mirrors’ in those pistols. They’ve been exposed to sunlight; the trigger releases the stored energy.”
“Smart, ain’t he, boys?” Stag Hartle demanded. “Figured it out all by himself, too.
Garrett’s hand was firm on his popgun. Uranov’s copter was gone, but there must be another outside that had brought this crew. If he could keep talking, build to a moment of distraction— “But why?” he wondered aloud. “You’ve found a new weapon that can be manufactured without overt violation of the law. But why? The quantities you’ve been turning out—what mob are you arming, and for what purpose?”
“For a purpose that good little boys from the W.B.I. shouldn’t ought to understand. Because you’re the backbone of this cockeyed peace that’s sapping the guts of the world. Hell, there ain’t no fun in life now. But there will be, brother. Christmas on wheels, but there will be!”
A luxurious gloat spread over Hartle’s narrow face. His self-satisfaction provided the one necessary instant of diversion. For the first time, his lovestonite pistol was not pointed in Garrett’s face.
No frontiersman in an historical epic of the Old West was quicker on the draw than a good W.B.I. man. The anaesthetic gun was in Gan Garrett’s hand now, and trained neatly on Hartle. “You realize,” said Garrett with dry factuality, “that the comatin crystals would penetrate before you could raise your weapon. I’ve learned as much as I need at the moment, and thank you, Hartle. Now I’m leaving—and I wouldn’t try to stop me.”
His mind was clear and cool. He could even reflect that that last sentence of his was itself something of an Irish bull. He deliberately turned his back on Hartle; he was reasonably sure that a lovestonite blast would have little effect though thicknesses of clothing, and he felt that Hartle’s mysterious “plans” for him did not include anything so direct as another dagger.
His trained muscles carried him with rapid deftness. He was past the crew while they still goggled at their leader’s discomfiture. One remained. In the doorway stood a huge bulk of a man with a flowing blond beard. Gan Garrett squeezed his trigger. The pellet made a little plop as it penetrated clothing and skin. Blond Beard opened his mouth, half moved his own pistol hand, and then crumpled.
Seconds made the difference here, and the huge bulk of Blond Beard caused the seconds’ delay. His body, even unconscious, still blocked the doorway, and Garrett had to pause, to gather himself for a leap. In that momentary pause, he felt a sharp burning pang in his right hand. He did not quite drop his popgun, but his hand sank. Wiry fingers clutched his wrist and forced it down still farther.
He twisted to glimpse his antagonist. It was a squat and extremely hairy oriental— probably an Ainu—whose sinewy arms were devoting their utmost effort to turning him to face Hartle.
Garrett’s uninjured left hand drew out the knife. He still did not know within himself whether he could use it. But to free himself now, when so much, the very structure of the peace itself might depend on his use of what he had learned here—
He heard Hartle’s sardonic laugh. “So the W.B.I. boys don’t mind a little killing so long as they’re the guys that do it. Garrett, you don’t know how much easier you’re making our job.”
Garrett’s body twisted with the Ainu’s like one sculptural mass. The muscles of his left arm tightened. Then a sudden jerk brought him face to face with Hartle. He saw the flicker of pleasure on the man’s face and the slight movement of his pistol hand.
The world exploded around him. The sight of his eyes flared up to searing incandescence and then went out. He was in blackness filled with red and green glints of chaotic vividness. The skin of his face ached with burning pain. His mind whirled, and he felt himself spinning into limitless space.
He could see again when he regained consciousness. It must have been a conservative release of sunpower; a lovestonite pistol could, he was sure, induce permanent blindness, and possibly much more. He was surprised that Stag Hartle had showed him such mercy. He was, in fact, surprised to find himself alive at all. But he was most surprised to find himself where he was.
He had seen these clean, sunny, and terrible empty white cells often enough before. A W.B.I. man makes arrests and often finds it necessary later to visit his prisoners. But he does not
