“They were inside this asteroid,” decided Parr, half to himself. “Down where the Martians planted the artificial gravity-machinery. Having been there, they fixed things so nobody will follow them. Only blasting rays could open up a way, and those would probably wreck the mechanism and send air, water and exiles all flying into space. All this she did. Why?”
“Why what?” asked Izak, not comprehending.
“Yes, why what?” repeated Parr. “I can only guess, Izak, and none of my guesses have been worth much lately. Let’s go home, and keep an eye peeled on our neighbors.”
The Martians had come again—the same space-patroller, repaired, and twice as many hands and a new skipper. They carried no Terrestrial exile—for once their errand was different.
Four of them, harnessed into erect human posture, armed and armored, stood around the evening fire in the central clearing of the village now ruled by Varina Pemberton. The skipper was being insistent, but not particularly deadly.
“We rrecognize that fourr dead among you will ssettle forr one dead Marrtian,” he told the gathered exiles. “The morre sso ass you assurre me that the man rressponssible hass been drriven frrom among you. But we make one demand—the arrmorr taken frrom the body of the dead Marrtian.”
“I am sorry about that,” the chieftainess replied from her side. “We didn’t know that you valued it. If we get it back for you—”
“Ssuch action would rreflect favorrably upon you,” nodded the Martian skipper. “Get the arrmorr again, and we will rrefrrain frrom punitive meassurress.”
“Why do you want that armor so much?” inquired Shanklin boldly. He himself had never thought of it as worth much. He was more satisfied to have the knife, which he now hid behind him lest the Martians see and claim. But the skipper only shook his petalled skull.
“It iss no prroblem of yourrss,” he snubbed Shanklin. And, to Varina Pemberton: “What time sshall we grrant you? A day? Two dayss? … Come before the end of that time and rreporrt to me at the patrrol vessel.”
He turned and led his followers back toward the plain where the ship was parked.
Night had well fallen, and silence hung about the vessel. Only a rectangle of soft light showed the open hatchway. The Martian officer led the way thither, ducked his head, entered—
Powerful hairy hands caught and overpowered him. Before he could collect himself for resistance, other hands had disarmed him and were dragging him away. His three companions, narrowly escaping the same fate, fell back and drew their guns and ray throwers. A voice warned them sharply:
“Don’t fire, any of you. We’ve got your friends in here, and we’ve taken their electro-automatics. Give us the slightest reason, and we’ll wipe them out first—you second.”
“Who arre you?” shrilled one of the Martians, lowering his weapon.
“My name’s Fitzhugh Parr,” came back the grim reply. “You framed me into this exile—it’s going to prove the worst day’s work you Martian flower-faces ever did. Not a move, any of you! The ship’s mine, and I’m going to take off at dawn.”
The three discomfited hands tramped away again. Inside the control room, Parr spoke to his shaggy followers, who grinned and twinkled like so many gnomes doing mischief.
“They won’t dare rush us,” he said, “but two of you—Ling and Izak—stay at the door with those guns. Dead sure you can still use ’em? … You, Ruba, come here to the controls. You say you once flew spacecraft.”
Ruba’s broad, coarse hand ruffled the bushy hair that grew on his almost browless head. “Once,” he agreed dolefully. “Now I—many thing I don’t remember.” His face, flat-nosed and blubber-lipped, grew bleak and plaintive as he gazed upon instruments he once had mastered.
“You’ll remember,” Parr assured him vehemently. “I never flew anything but a short-shot pleasure cruiser, but I’m beginning to dope things out. We’ll help each other, Ruba. Don’t you want to get away from here, go home?”
“Home!” breathed Ruba, and the ears of the others—pointed, some of those ears, and all of them hairy—pricked up visibly at that word.
“Well, there you are,” Parr said encouragingly. “Sweat your brains, lad. We’ve got until dawn. Then away we go.”
“You will never manage,” slurred the skipper from the corner where the Martian captives, bound securely, sprawled under custody of a beast-man with a lever bar for a club. “Thesse animalss have not mental powerr—”
“Shut up, or I’ll let that guard tap you,” Parr warned him. “They had mental power enough to fool you all over the shop. Come on, Ruba. Isn’t this the rocket gauge? Please remember how it operates!”
The capture of the ship had been easy, so easy. The guard had been well kept only until the skipper and his party had gone out of sight toward the human village. Nobody ever expected trouble from beast-men, and the watch on board had not dreamed of a rush until they were down and secure. But this—the rationalization of intricate space-machinery—was by contrast a doleful obstacle. “Please remember,” Parr pleaded with Ruba again.
And so for hours. And at last, prodded and cajoled and bullied, the degenerated intelligence of Ruba had partially responded. His clumsy paws, once so skilful, coaxed the mechanism into life. The blasts emitted preliminary belches. The whole fabric of the ship quivered, like a sleeper slowly wakening.
“Can you get her nose up, Ruba?” Parr found himself able to inquire at last.
“Huh, boss,” spoke Ling from his watch at the door. “Come. I see white thing.”
Parr hurried across to look.
The white thing was a tattered shirt, held aloft on a stick. From the direction of the village came several figures, Martian and Terrestrial. Parr recognized the bearer of the flag of truce—it was Varina Pemberton. With her walked the three Martian hands whom he had warned off, their tentacles lifted to ask for parley, their weapons sheathed at their belts. Sadau was there, and Shanklin.
“Ready, guns,” Parr warned Ling
