Callisto appeared within the screen, leaped upward at them. Then the surface of the frozen little world seemed to rotate swiftly and a dome appeared.
The televisor dived through the dome, sped through the city, straight for a penthouse apartment.
Ben Wrail sat slumped in a chair. A newspaper was crumpled at his feet. In his lap lay a mangled dead cigar.
"Greg!” yelled Russ. “Greg, there's something wrong!"
Greg leaped forward, stared at the screen. Russ heard his smothered cry of rage.
In Wrail's forehead was a tiny, neatly drilled hole from which a single drop of blood oozed.
"Murdered!” exclaimed Russ.
"Yes, murdered,” said Greg, and there was a sudden calmness in his voice.
Russ grasped the televisor control. Ranthoor's streets ran beneath them, curiously silent and deserted. Here and there lay bodies. A few shop windows were smashed. But the only living that stirred was a dog that slunk across the street and into the shadows of an alley.
Swiftly the televisor swung along the streets. Straight into the screen clanked a marching detail of government police, herding before them a half dozen prisoners. The men had their hands bound behind their backs, but they walked with heads held high.
"Revolution,” gasped Russ.
"Not a revolution. A purge. Stutsman is clearing the city of all who might be dangerous to him This will be happening on every other planet where Chambers holds control."
Perspiration ran down Russ's forehead and dripped into his eyes as he manipulated the controls.
"Stutsman is striking first,” said Greg, calmly… far too calmly. “He's consolidating his position, possibly on the pretense that plots have been discovered."
A few buildings were bombed. A line of bodies were crumpled at the foot of a steel wall, marking the spot where men had been lined up and mowed down with one sweeping blast from a heater.
Russ turned the television controls. “Let's see about Venus and Mars."
The scenes in Ranthoor were duplicated in Sandebar on Mars, in New Chicago, the capital of Venus. Everywhere Stutsman had struck… everywhere the purge was wiping out in blood every person who might revolt against the Chambers-dictated governments. Throughout the Solar System violence was on the march, iron-shod boots trampling the rights of free men to tighten the grip of Interplanetary.
IN the control room of the Invincible the two men stared at one another.
"There's one man we need,” said Greg. “One man, if he's still alive, and I think he is."
"Who is that?” asked Russ.
"John Moore Mallory,” said Greg.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He was imprisoned in Ranthoor, but Stutsman transferred him some place else. Possibly to one of the prison fleet.” “If we had the records of the Callisto prison,” suggested Russ, “we could find out."
"If we had the records…"
"We'll get them!” Russ said.
He swung back to the keyboard again.
A moment later the administration offices of the prison were on the screen.
The two men searched the vision plate.
"The records are most likely in that vault,” said Russ. “And the vault is locked."
"Don't worry about the lock,” snapped Greg. “Just bring the whole damn thing here-vault and records and all."
Russ nodded grimly. His thumb tripped the tele-transport control and from the engine rooms came a drone of power. In Ranthoor Prison, great bands of force wrapped themselves around the vault, clutching it, enfolding it within a sphere of power. Back in the Invincible the engines screamed and the vault was ripped out of the solid steel wall as easily as a man might rip a button from his shirt.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
John Moore Mallory sat on the single metal chair within his cell and pressed his face against the tiny vision port For hours he had sat there, staring out into the blackness of space.
There was bitterness in John Moore Mallory's soul, a terrible and futile bitterness. So long as he had remained within the Ranthoor prison, there had always been a chance of escape. But now, aboard the penal ship, there was no hope. Nothing but the taunting reaches of space, the mocking pinpoints of the stars, the hooting laughter of the engines.
Sometimes he had thought he would go mad. The everlasting routine, the meaningless march of hours. The work period, the sleep period… the work period, the sleep period… endless monotony, an existence without a purpose. Men buried alive in space.
"John Moore Mallory,” said a voice.
Mallory heard, but he did not stir. An awful thought crossed his mind. Now he was hearing voices calling his name!
"John Mallory,” said the voice again.
Mallory slowly turned about and as he turned he started from his chair.
A man stood in the cell! A man he had never seen before, who had come silently, for there had been no screech of opening door.
"You are John Moore Mallory, aren't you?” asked the man.
"Yes, I am Mallory. Who are you?"
"Gregory Manning."
"Gregory Manning,” said Mallory wonderingly. “I've heard of you. You're the man who rescued the Pluto Expedition. But why are you here? How did you get in?"
"I came to take you away with me,” said Greg. “Back to Callisto. Back to any place you want to go."
Mallory flattened himself against the partition, his face white with disbelief. “But I'm in a prison ship. I'm not free to go and come as I please."
Greg chuckled. “You are free to go and come as you please from now on,” he said. “Even prison ships can't hold you."
"You're mad,” whispered Mallory. “Either you're mad or I am. You're a dream. I'll wake up and find you gone."
Manning stood in silence, looking at the man. Mallory bore the marks of prison on him. His eyes were haunted and his rugged face was pinched and thin.
"Listen closely, Mallory,” said Greg softly. “You aren't going mad and I'm not mad. You aren't seeing things. You aren't hearing things. You're actually talking to me."
There was no change in the other's face.
"Mallory,” Greg went on, “I have what you've always needed-means of generating almost unlimited energy at almost no cost, the secret of the energy of matter. A secret that will smash Interplanetary, that will free the Solar System from Spencer Chambers. But I can't make that secret available to the people until Chambers is crushed, until I'm sure that he can't take it from me. And to do that I need your help."
Mallory's face lost its expression of bewilderment, suddenly lighted with realization. But his voice was harsh and bitter.
"You came too late. I can't help you. Remember, I'm in a prison ship from which no one can escape. You have to do what you can… you must do what you can. But I can't be with you."
Manning strode forward. “You don't get the idea at all. I said I'd get you out of here and I'm going to. I could pick up this ship and put it wherever I wanted. But I don't want to. I just want you."
Mallory stared at him.
"Just don't be startled,” said Greg. “Something will happen soon. Get ready for it."
Feet drummed on the metal corridor outside.
"Hey, you, pipe down!” yelled the voice of the guard. “You know there's no talking allowed now. Go to sleep."
"That's the guard,” Mallory whispered fiercely. “They'll stop us."
Greg grinned viciously. “No, they won't."
The guard came into view through the grilled door.
"So it's you, Mallory…” he began, stopping in amazement. “Hey, you!” he shouted at Greg. “Who are you? How did you get in that cell?"
Greg flipped a hand in greeting. “Pleasant evening, isn't it?"
The guard grabbed for the door, but he did not reach the bars. Some force stopped him six inches away. It could not be seen, could not be felt, but his straining against accomplished nothing.