“What for?”
“I think they want us in good shape. Maybe Tom is right, maybe they couldn’t find your dad’s strike, and think we know where it is.”
“Maybe so,” Greg admitted, “but this is piracy just the same, and that means they’ll never dare let us get back to Mars, any of us.” He turned to Johnny. “Can’t we do anything to even the odds a little?”
“If we could manage to disable the Ranger ship, it might help.”
“But they’ll be guarding it.”
“True, but it’s worth a try. Can you hold the gate here?”
“I can try.”
“All right. I’ll be back.” Johnny had checked the power pack in his stunner and then vanished into the gloom of the corridor. Now, after fifteen minutes, there was no sign of him, nothing but darkness and oppressive, ominous silence.
Greg waited. Suddenly, bitterly, he realized the hopelessness of their situation. Even if Johnny did manage to damage the Ranger ship, what difference would it make? The three of them had been fools to come out here, idiots to ignore Tawney’s warning. Hadn’t Tawney told them in so many words that there would be trouble? But they had come out anyway, just begging for it.
Well, now they had what they’d begged for. Greg slammed his fist into his palm angrily. What had they expected? That the big company would step aside for them, with a fortune hanging in the balance? If they had even begun to think it through before they started. . . .
But they hadn’t, and now it was too late. They were under attack. Johnny was off on a fool’s errand, gone too long for comfort, and Tom—Greg glanced at his watch. It had been ten minutes since Tom’s call. What had he meant? A plan, he said. A long chance.
Greg checked the corridor again, listening for any sound. What Tom did was none of his business. He hadn’t wanted his brother to come along in the first place. If Tom got himself into a jam now, there was nothing he could do about it.
But he couldn’t shake off the cold feeling in his chest when he thought about Tom. If something happened to him, then what? The cold feeling deepened into an ache.
Once, long ago, he and Tom had been inseparable. He remembered those days with sudden vivid clearness. They had gone everywhere and done everything together. They’d actually been friends. But things had been different then. Dad had been working in the city then, and Mom had been alive, and things had been different.
And then the sickness had come, and torn everything apart. A native Martian virus, the doctor had said, a neurotoxic virus like the old Earth-side polio, only worse. First it hit Mom, then Tom, striking without warning.
He remembered the horrible, endless night he had waited at the infirmary with Dad, until the doctor came out and told them that Mom was gone, that there was only, a slender chance for Tom. He remembered Dad’s gray face that night. It was weeks before they were sure that Tom was going to live, months before he was back on his feet, pale and weak, a ghost of his twin brother. It had been everything for Tom in those days, everything for Tom. The sickness hadn’t even touched Greg. By the time Tom was well again, Greg was two years ahead in school, bigger than Tom, stronger than Tom, and somehow they weren’t friends any more.
Until now, when something stronger than either of them drew them together again. Greg fought down the bitter memories, and wished suddenly that the cold ache in his chest would go away, that Tom would appear down the corridor.
A sound jerked him out of his reverie. He tensed, gripping the stunner, peering into the darkness. Had he heard something? Or, was it his own foot scraping on the deck plate? He held his breath, listening, and the sound came again, louder.
Someone was moving stealthily up the corridor.
Greg waited, covered by the edge of the hatchway. It might be Johnny returning, or maybe even Tom, but there was no sign of recognition. Whoever it was was coming silently. . . .
A beam of light flared from a head lamp, and he saw the blue crackle of a stunner. He jerked back as the beam bounced off the metal walls. Then he was firing point-blank down the corridor, his stunner on a tight beam, a deadly pencil of violent energy. He heard a muffled scream as a bulk loomed up in front of him and crashed to the deck at his feet.
He fired again. Another crash, a shout, and the sound of footsteps, retreating. He waited, his heart pounding, but there was nothing more.
The first attempt on the control cabin had failed.
Five minutes later the second attempt began. This time there was no warning sound. A sudden, ear-splitting crash, a groan of tortured metal, and the barricaded hatchway glowed dull red. Another crash followed. The edge of the hatch split open, pouring acrid Murexide fumes into the cabin. A third explosion breached the door six inches; Greg could see head lamps in the corridor beyond.
He fired through the crack, pressing down the stud until the stunner scorched his hand. Then he heard boots clanging up the other corridor. He pressed back against the wall, waited until the sounds were near, then threw open the hatch. For an instant he made a perfect target, but the raiders did not fire. The stunner buzzed in his hand, and once again the footfalls retreated.
They were being careful!
Silence then, and blackness. Minutes passed . . . five, ten . . . Greg checked the time again. It was over twenty minutes since Tom had talked to him. What had happened? Whatever Tom had planned must have misfired, or something would have happened by now. For a moment he considered leaving his post and starting down the dark corridor to search, but to search where? There was nothing to do but wait and hope for a miracle.
Suddenly the lights blazed on in the control cabin and the corridor outside. An attention signal buzzed in Greg’s earphones. “All right, Hunter, it’s all over,” a voice grated. “You’ve got five minutes to get down to #3 lock. If you make us come and get you, you’ll get hurt.”
“I’ll chance it,” Greg snapped back. “Come on up.”
“We’re through fooling,” the voice said. “You’d better get down here. And bring your brother with you.”
“Sure,” Greg said. “Start holding your breath.”
The contact broke for a moment, then clicked on again. This time it was another voice. “We’ve got Johnny Coombs down here,” it said. “You want him to stay alive, you start moving. Without your stunner.”
Greg chewed his lip. They could be bluffing, but they might not be. “I want to see Johnny,” he said.
On the control panel a view screen flickered to life. “Take a look,” the voice said in his earphones.
They had Johnny, all right. A burly guard was holding his good arm behind his back. Greg could see the speaker wires jerked loose from his helmet.
“It’s up to you,” the voice said. “You’ve got three minutes. If you’re not down here by then, this helmet comes off and your friend goes out the lock. It’s quick that way, but it’s not very pleasant.”
Johnny was shaking his head violently. The guard wrenched at his arm, and the miner’s face twisted in pain. “Two minutes,” the voice said.
“Okay,” Greg said. “I’m coming down.”
“Drop the stunner right there.”
He dropped the weapon onto the deck. Three steps out into the corridor, and two guards were there to meet him, stunners raised. They marched him up the ramp to the outer level corridor and around to #3 lock.
They were waiting there with Johnny. A moment later the guards herded them through the lock and into the hold of the Ranger ship, stripped off their suits, and searched them.
A big man with a heavy face and coarse black hair came into the cabin. He looked at Johnny and Greg and grunted. “You must be Hunter,” he said to Greg. “Where’s the other one?”