Cosmic Kill

I

Lon Archman waited tensely for the Martian to come nearer: Around him, the ancient world’s hell-winds whined piercingly. Archman shivered involuntarily and squeezed tighter on the butt of the zam-gun.

One shot. He had one shot left. And if the Martian were to fire before he did—

The wind picked up the red sand and tossed it at him as he crouched behind the twisted gabron-weed. The Martian advanced steadily, its heavy body swung forward in a low crouch. It was still out of range of the zam-gun. Archman didn’t dare fire yet, not with only one charge left.

A gust of devilish wind blew more sand in the Earthman’s face. He spat and dug at his eyes. A little undercurrent of fear beat in the back of his mind. He shoved the emotion away. Fear and Lon Archman didn’t mix.

But where the blazes was that Martian?

Ah—there. Stooping now behind the clump of gabron-weed. Inching forward on his belly toward Archman now. Archman could almost see the hill-creature’s tusks glinting in the dim light. His finger wavered on the zam-gun’s trigger. Again a gust of wind tossed sand in his eyes.

That was the Martian’s big advantage, he thought. The Martian had a transparent eyelid that kept the damned sand out; Archman was blinded by the stinging red stuff more often than not.

Well, I’ve got an advantage too. I’m an agent of Universal Intelligence, and that’s just a dumb Martian hillman out there trying to kill me.

A torrent of sand swept down over them again. Archman fumbled on the desert floor for a moment and grabbed a heavy lichen-encrusted rock. He heaved it as far as he could—forty feet, in Mars’ low grav. It kicked up a cloud of sand.

The Martian squealed in triumph and fired. Archman grinned, cupped his hands, threw his voice forty feet. The rock seemed to scream in mortal agony, ending in a choking gasp of death.

The Martian rose confidently from his hiding-place to survey the smoking remains of Archman. The Earthman waited until the Martian’s tusked head and shoulders were visible, then jammed down on the zam-gun’s firing stud.

It was his last shot—but his aim was good. The Martian gasped as the force-beam hit him, and slowly toppled to his native soil, his massive body burned to a hard black crust. Archman kept the beam on him until it flickered out, then thrust the now-useless zam-gun in his beltsash and stood up.

He had won.

He took three steps forward on the crunching sand—and suddenly bleak Mars dissolved and he was back in the secret offices of Universal Intelligence, on Earth. He heard the wry voice of Blake Wentworth, Chief of Intelligence, saying, “The next time you fight on Mars, Archman, it’ll be for keeps.”

The shock of transition numbed Archman for a second, but he bounced out of his freeze lightning-fast. Eyeing Wentworth he said, “You mean I passed your test?”

The Intelligence Chief toyed with his double chin, scowled, referred to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. “You did. You passed this test. But that doesn’t mean you would have survived the same situation on Mars.”

“How so?”

“After killing the Martian you rose without looking behind you. How did you know there wasn’t another Martian back there waiting to pot you the second you stood up?”

“Well, I—” Archman reddened, realizing he had no excuse. He had committed an inexcusable blunder. “I didn’t know, Chief. I fouled up. I guess you’ll have to look for someone else for the job of killing Darrien.”

He started to leave the office.

“Like hell I will,” Wentworth snapped. “You’re the man I want!”

“But—”

“You went through the series of test conflicts with 97.003 percent of success. The next best man in Intelligence scored 89.62. That’s not good enough. We figured 95% would be the kind of score a man would need in order to get to Mars, find Darrien, and kill him. You exceeded that mark by better than two percent. As for your blunder at the end—well, it doesn’t change things. It simply means you may not come back alive after the conclusion of your mission. But we don’t worry about that in Intelligence. Do we, Archman?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Let’s get out of this testing lab, then, and into my office. I want to fill you in on the details of the job before I let you go.”

Wentworth led the way to an inner office and dropped down behind a desk specially contoured to admit his vast bulk. He mopped away sweat and stared levelly at the waiting Archman.

“How much do you know about Darrien, Lon?”

“That he’s an Earthman who hates Earth. That he’s one of the System’s most brilliant men—and its most brilliant criminal as well. He tried to overthrow the government twice, and the public screamed for his execution—but instead the High Council sent him to the penal colony on Venusia, in deference to his extraordinary mind.”

“Yes,” wheezed Wentworth. “The most disastrous move so far this century. I did my best to have that reptile executed, but the Council ignored me. So they sent him to Venusia—and in that cesspool he gathered a network of criminals around him and established his empire. An Empire we succeeded in destroying thanks to the heroic work of Tanton.”

Archman nodded solemnly. Everyone in Intelligence knew of Tanton, the semi-legendary blue Mercurian who had given his life to destroy Darrien’s vile empire. “But Darrien escaped, sir. Even as Space Fleet Three was bombarding Venusia, he and his closest henchmen got away on gravplates and escaped to Mars.”

“Yes,” said Wentworth, “To Mars. Where in the past five years he’s proceeded to establish a new empire twice as deadly and vicious as the one on Venus. We know he’s gathering strength for an attack on Earth—for an attack on the planet that cast him out, on the planet he hates more than anything in the cosmos.”

“Why don’t we just send a fleet up there and blast him out the way we did the last time?” Archman asked.

“Three reasons. One is the Clanton Space Mine, the umbrella of force-rays that surrounds his den on Mars and makes it invulnerable to attack—”

“But Davison has worked out a nullifier to the Clanton Mine, sir! That’s no reason—”

“Two,” continued Wentworth inexorably, “Even though we can break down his barrier, our hands are tied. We can’t come down to the level of worms, Archman. Darrien hasn’t done anything—yet. We know he’s going to attack Earth with all he’s got, any day or week or month now—as soon as he’s ready. But until he does so, we’re helpless against him. Earth doesn’t fight preventive wars. We’d have a black eye with the whole galaxy if we declared war on Darrien after all our high-toned declarations.

“And Three, Intelligence doesn’t like to make the same mistake a second time. We bombed Darrien once, and he got away. This time, we’re going to make sure we get him.”

“By sending me, you mean?”

“Yes. Your job is to infiltrate into Darrien’s city, find him, and kill him. It won’t be easy. We know Darrien has several doubles, orthysynthetic duplicate robots. You’ll have to watch out for those. You won’t got two chances to kill the real Darrien.”

“I understand, sir.”

“And one other thing—this whole expedition of yours is strictly unofficial and illegal.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. You won’t be on Mars as a representative of Universal Intelligence. You’re there on your own, as Lon Archman, Killer. Your job is to get Darrien without implicating Earth. Knock him off and the whole empire collapses. But you’re on your own, Archman. And you probably won’t come back.”

“I understand, sir. I understood that when I volunteered for this job.”

“Good. You leave for Mars tonight.”

A pair of black-tailed Venusians were sitting at the bar with a white-skinned Earth girl between them, as Hendrin the Mercurian entered. He had been on Mars only an hour, and wanted a drink to warm his gullet before he went any further. This was a cold planet; despite his thick shell-like hide, Hendrin didn’t overmuch care for the Martian weather.

“I’ll have a double bizant,” he snapped, spinning a silver three-creda piece on the shining counter. One of the Venusians looked up at that. The whip-like black tail twitched.

“You must have a powerful thirst, Mercurian!”

Hendrin glanced at him scornfully. “I’m just warming up for some serious drinking, friend. Bizant sets the blood flowing; it’s just a starter.”

The drink arrived, and he downed it in a quick gulp. That was good, he thought. “I’ll have another…and after it, a shot of dolbrouk as a chaser.”

“That’s more like it,” said the Venusian appreciatively. “You’re a man after my own heart.” To prove it, he downed his own drink—a mug of fiery brez. Roaring, he slapped his companion’s back and pinched the arm of the silent Earth-girl huddled between them.

Ideas started to form in Hendrin’s head. He was alone on a strange planet, and a big job faced him. These two Venusians were well along in their cups—and they wore the tight gray britches and red tunic of Darrien’s brigades. That was good.

As for the girl—well, she might help in the plan too. She was young and frightened-looking; probably she’d been caught in a recent raiding-party. Her clothes hung in tatters. Hendrin appreciatively observed the occasional bare patch of white thigh, the soft curve of breast, visible through the rents. Yes, she might do too. It depended on how drunk these Venusians were.

The Mercurian left his place at the bar and walked over to the carousing Venusians. “You sound like my type of men,” he told them. “Got some time?”

“All the time in the universe!”

“Good enough. Let’s take a booth in the back and see how much good brew we can pour into ourselves.” Hendrin jingled his pocket.“There’s plenty of cash here—cash I might part with for the company of two such as you!”

The Venusians exchanged glances, which Hendrin did not miss. They thought he was a sucker ready to be exploited. Well, the Mercurian thought, we’ll see who gets exploited. And as for the money—that was his master’s. He had an unlimited expense account for this mission. And he intended to use it to the utmost.

“Come, wench,” said one Venusian thickly. “ Let’s join this gentleman at a booth.”

Hendrin jammed his bulk into one corner of the booth, and one of the Venusians sat by his side. Across from him sat the other Venusian and the girl. Her eyes were red and raw, and her throat showed the mark of a recent rope.

Chuckling, Hendrin said, “Where’d you get the girl?”

“Planetoid Eleven,” one of the Venusians told him. “We were on a raiding party for Darrien, and found her in one of the colonies. A nice one, is she not?”

“I’ve seen better,” remarked Hendrin casually. “She looks sullen and angry.”

“They all do. But they warm up, once they see they’ve no alternative. How about some drinks?”

Hendrin ordered a round of brez for all three, and tossed the barkeep another three-creda coin. The drinks arrived. The Venusian nearest him reached clumsily for his and spilled three or four drops.

“Oopsh…waste of good liquor. Sorry.”

“Don’t shed tears,” Hendrin said. “There’s more where that came from.”

“Sure thing. Well, here’s to us all—Darrien too, damn his ugly skin!”

They drank. Then they drank some more. Hendrin matched them drink for drink, and paid for most—but his hard-shelled body quickly converted the alcohol to energy, while the Venusians grew less and less sure of their speech, wobblier and wobblier in coordination.

Plans took rapid shape in the Mercurian’s mind. He was here on a dangerous mission, and he knew the moment he ceased to think fast would be the moment he ceased to think.

Krodrang, Overlord of Mercury, had sent him here—Krodrang who had been content to rule the tiny planet without territorial ambitions for decades, but who suddenly had been consumed by the ambition to rule the universe as well. He had summoned Hendrin, his best agent, to the throne-room.

“Hendrin, I want you to go to Mars. Join Darrien’ s army. Get close to Darrien. And when you get the chance, steal his secrets. The Clanton Mine, the orthysynthetic duplicate robots, anything else. Bribe his henchmen. Steal his mistress. Do whatever you can—but I must have Darrien’s secrets! And when you have them—kill him. Then I shall rule the system supreme.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

In Hendrin’s personal opinion the Overlord was taken with the madness of extreme age. But it was not Hendrin’s place to question. He was loyal—and so he accepted the job without demur.

Now he was here. He needed some means of access to Darrien.

Pointing at the girl, he said, “What do you plan to do with her? She looks weak for a slave.”

“Weak! Nonsense. She’s as strong as an Earthman. They come that way, out in those colonies. We plan to bring her to Dorvis Graal, Darrien’s Viceroy. Dorvis Graal will buy her and make her a slave to Darrien—or possibly a mistress.”

Hendrin’s black eyes narrowed. “How much will Dorvis Graal pay?”

“A hundred credas platinum, if we’re lucky.”

The Mercurian surveyed the girl out of one eye. She was undeniably lovely, and there was something else—a smoking defiance, perhaps—that might make her an appealing challenge for a jaded tyrant. “Will ye take a hundred fifty from me?”

“From you, Mercurian?”

“A hundred-eighty, then.”

The girl looked up scornfully. Her breasts heaved as she said, “You alien pigs buy and sell us as if we’re cattle. But just wait! Wait until—”

One Venusian reached out and slapped her. She sank back into silence. “A hundred-eighty, you say?”

Hendrin nodded. “She might keep me pleasant company on the cold nights of this accursed planet.”

“I doubt it,” said the soberer of the two Venusians. “She looks mean. But we’d never get a hundred-eighty from Dorvis Graal. You can have her. Got the cash?”

Hendrin dropped four coins into the Venusian’s leathery palm.

“Done!” the Venusian cried. “The girl is yours!”

The Mercurian nodded approvingly. The first step on the road to Darrien’s chambers had been paved. He reached across the table and imprisoned the girl’s wrist in one of his huge paws, and smiled coldly as defiance flared on her face. The girl had spirit. Darrien might be interested.

Lon Archman shivered as the bitter Martian winds swept around him. It was just as it had been in the drug-induced tests Wentworth had run back in the Universal Intelligence office, with one little difference.

This was no dream. This was the real thing.

All he could see of Mars was the wide, flat, far-ranging plain of red sand, broken here and there by a rock outcrop or a twisted gabron-weed. In the distance he could see Canalopolis, the city Darrien had taken over and made the headquarters for his empire.

He started to walk.

After about fifteen minutes he saw his first sign of life—a guard, in the grey-and-red uniform of Darrien’s men, pacing back and forth in the sand outside Canalopolis. He was an Earthman. He wore the leather harness that marked the renegade. Archman’s lips pursed coldly as he watched the Earthman pace to and fro. Cautiously the Intelligence agent edged up on the renegade. He couldn’t use his zam-gun; he needed the renegade’s uniform. It would have to be a surprise attack.

Remembering what had happened in the final test on Earth, Archman glanced in all directions. Then he sprang forward, running full tilt at the unseeing renegade.

The man grunted and staggered forward as Archman cracked into him. Lon snatched the renegade’s zam-gun and tossed it to one side. Then he grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic and yanked him around.

He was a scrawny, hard-eyed fellow with fleshless cheeks and thin lips—probably a cheap crook who thought he stood better pickings serving Darrien than making a go of it on Earth. Archman hit him.. The renegade doubled in pain, and Archman hit him again—hard. The man crumpled like a wet paper doll.

Again the Intelligence man glanced warily around. He was a quick learner, and he wanted to improve that 97.003% score to 100%. 100% meant survival on this mission, and Archman wasn’t particularly anxious to die.

No one was in sight. He stripped off the unconscious guard’s clothing, then peeled out of his own. The chill Martian winds whipped against his nakedness. Hastily he donned the guard’s uniform. Now he was wearing the uniform of Darrien’s brigade of filthy renegades.

Drawing his zam-gun, he incinerated his own clothing. The wind carried the particles away, and there was no trace. Then he glanced at the naked, unconscious renegade, already turning blue, frozen cold. Without remorse Archman killed him, lifted the headless body, carried it fifty feet to a sand dune, shoved it out of sight.

Within minutes the man would be buried by tons of sand. Archman had considered this first step carefully, had originally planned to exchange clothing with the guard and assume his identity. But that was risky. This was safer. Men often got lost in the Martian desert and vanished in the sand. When the time came for changing of the guard, that would be what they would report of this man.

So far, so good. Archman tightened the uniform at the waist until it was a convincing fit. Then he began to trot over the shifting sand toward the city ahead.

About ten minutes later he was inside Canalopolis. The guards at the gate, seeing him in Darrien’s uniform, passed him without question.

The city was old—old and filthy, like all of Mars. Crowded streets loomed before him, streets thick with shops and bars and dark alleys, lurking strangers ready to rob or gamble or sell women. It wasn’t a pleasant place. Archman smiled grimly. This was a fitting planet for Darrien to have set up his empire. Dirty and dark, justice-hating like Darrien himself.

Well, Archman thought, I’ve got to begin somewhere. Getting to Darrien would be a slow process—especially if he wanted to live through it.

The city’s streets were thronged with aliens of all sorts: bushy-tailed Venusians, swaggering boldly with their deadly stingers at the end of their black tails; blue Mercurians, almost impregnable inside their thick shells; occasionally a Plutonian, looking like a fish with legs with their finned hands; and, of course, the vicious, powerful Martians, all of them showing their sneering tusks.

Here and there there was an Earthman, like Darrien himself a renegade. Archman hated those worst of all, for they were betraying their home world.

He stood still and looked around. Far ahead of him, in the middle of the city, rose a vaulting palace sculptured from shimmering Martian quartz. That was undoubtedly Darrien’s headquarters. Surrounding it were smaller buildings, barracks-like—and then the rest of the city sprawled around it. Darrien had built himself a neat little fortress, thought Archman.

He wasn’t at all sure how he was going to reach Darrien. But that would come in time. The first action, he thought, would be to get a couple of drinks under his belt and to have a look around the town.

A sign in three languages beckoned to him: BAR.

He cut his way through the milling traffic and entered. It was a long, low-ceilinged room which stank of five planets’ liquor. A Martian bartender stood before a formidable array of exotic drinks; along the bar, men of five worlds slumped in varying degrees of drunkenness. Farther back, lit by a couple of dusty, sputtering levon-tubes, there were some secluded booths.

Archman stiffened suddenly. In one of the booths was a sight that brought quick anger to him—anger that he just as quickly forced to subside.

A blue Mercurian was leaning over, pawing a near-nude, sobbing Earth-girl. There were two Venusians in the booth with them, both slumped over the table, lying in utter stupor face-down in little pools of slops.

An Earth-girl? Here? And what the hell was that hardshell doing pawing her?

Archman’s first thoughts were murderous. But then he realized such a situation gave him a chance to make a few contacts on this unfriendly planet. He shouldered past a couple of drozky-winos at the bar, choking back his disgust, and moved toward the booth in the back.

The levon-tube was sputtering noisily, going griz-griz every few seconds. Energy leakage, thought Archman. He reached the booth, and the Mercurian left the girl alone and looked up inquisitively at him.

“Hello, Mercurian. Nice bit of flesh you’ve got there.”

“Isn’t she, though? I just bought her off these sots you see before you.” The Mercurian indicated the drunken Venusians, and laughed. “We ought to cut their tails off before they wake!”

Archman eyed the alien stonily. “Drunk they may be, but they wear Darrien’s uniform—which is more than you can say, stranger.”

“I’m here to join up, though. Don’t leap to conclusions. I’m as loyal to Darrien as you are, maybe more so.”

“Sorry,” Archman apologized. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Go right ahead. Dump one of the tailed ones on the floor. They’re so drunk they’ll never feel it.”

Casually Archman shoved one of the Venusians by the shoulder. The alien stirred, moaned, and without complaining slid into a little heap on the floor. Archman took his seat, feeling the girl’s warmness next to him.

“My name’s Archman,” he said. “Yours?”

“Hendrin. Just arrived from Mercury. A fine wench, isn’t she?”

Archman studied the girl appreciatively. Her face was set in sullen defiance, and despite her near-nudity she had a firm dignity about her that the Earthman liked. She seemed to be staring right through the Mercurian rather than at him, and the fact that her breasts were nearly bare and her lovely legs unclad hardly disturbed her.

“Where are you from, lass?”

“Is it your business—traitor?”

Archman recoiled. “Harsh words, pretty one. But perhaps we’ve met somewhere on Earth. I’m curious.”

“I’m not from Earth. I was a colonist on Planetoid Eleven until—until—”

“An attractive bit of property,” Archman told the Mercurian. “You capture her yourself?”

Hendrin shook his domed head. “No. I bought her from these Venusians here. I mean to sell her to our lord Darrien, for use as a plaything.”

Archman smiled casually. “I could almost use one like her myself. Would you take a hundred credas for her?”

“I paid a hundred-eighty.”

“Two hundred, then?”

“Not for a thousand,” said the Mercurian firmly. “This girl is for Darrien himself.”

“Beasts,” the girl muttered.

The Mercurian slapped her with a clawed fist. A little trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, and Archman had to force himself to watch coldly.

“You won’t sell, eh?” Archman said. That was unfortunate, he thought. Having merchandise such as this to offer might conceivably get him close to Darrien quickly. And the girl was just that—merchandise. As an Intelligence agent went, Archman knew that all lives including his own were expendable in the struggle to assassinate Darrien.

“I sure won’t,” said the Mercurian exultantly. “Why, Darrien will go wild when he sees this one! What do I need your money for, against the power he can offer for her?”

“What if he simply takes her away from you?”

“Darrien wouldn’t do that. Darrien’s smart; he knows how to keep the loyalty of his men.” The Mercurian rose, clutching the girl’s wrist. “Come, lovely. We go to seek Darrien now, before anything might happen to her. And as for you, Earthman, it was good to make your acquaintance—and perhaps we shall meet again some day.”

“Perhaps,” Archman said tightly. He sat back and watched as the Mercurian, gloating, led his prize away. A flash of thighs, the bright warmness of a breast, and then girl and captor were gone.

This is a filthy business, Archman thought bitterly.

But the Mercurian was on his way to Darrien. It would be useful, reflected the Earthman, to follow along and find out just what happened. At this stage of the enterprise, any trail could be taken.

Hendrin the Mercurian moved at a steady rate through the streets of Canalopolis, dragging the sobbing girl roughly along.

“You don’t have to pull me,” she said icily, struggling with her free hand to pull together the tatters of her clothing. “I don’t want my arm yanked out. I’ll come willingly.”

“Then walk faster,” Hendrin grunted. He peered ahead, toward the rosy bulk of Darrien’s palace, as a structure of intrigue began to form in his mind. Using the girl as a pawn, he could gain access to Darrien.

That alone wouldn’t help. In all probability he’d see not the real Darrien, but an orthysynthetic duplicate of the shrewd leader. One false move and Hendrin would find himself brainburned and tossed out as carrion for the sandwolves.

This had to be done carefully, very carefully. But Hendrin felt no fear. Overlord Krodrang had hand-picked him from the ranks of his secret operatives, and Hendrin was confident he could fulfill his monarch’s commands.

“Why do you have to do this to me?” the girl asked suddenly. “Why couldn’t I have been left on Planetoid Eleven with my parents, in peace, instead of being dragged here, to be paraded nude through the streets of this awful city and—” She gasped for breath.

“Easy, girl, easy. That’s a great many words for your soft throat to spew out so quickly.”

“I don’t want your lying gentleness!” she snapped. “Why am I being sold to Darrien? And what will he do to me?”

“As for the former, I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off. I’m selling you for money—”

“But those Venusians said you bid more for me than Darrien would have paid!”

“They were drunk. They didn’t recognize a prize specimen when they see one.”

“Prize specimen!” She spat the words back at him. “To you aliens I’m just a prize specimen, is that it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Hendrin said lightly. “As for what Darrien will do to you—come now, milady, that ought to be obvious!”

“It is,” she said glumly. “But why does life have to be this way? That Earthman, back in the bar—doesn’t he have any loyalty to someone of his own world?”

“Apparently not. But enough of this talk; what’s your name?”

“Elissa Hall.”

“A pretty name, though a trifle too smooth for my taste. How old are you, Elissa?”

“Nineteen.”

“Umm. Darrien will be interested, I’m sure.”

“You’re the most cold-blooded creature I’ve ever met,” she said.

Hendrin chuckled dryly. “I doubt it. I’m a kindly old saint compared with Darrien. I’m just doing my job, lady; don’t make it hard for me.”

She didn’t answer. Hendrin rotated one eye until he had a good view of her. She had blonde hair cut in bangs, blue eyes, a pert nose, warm-looking lips. Her figure was excellent. Some other time, perhaps, Hendrin might have had some sport with her first and scarcely found it dull. But not now. Like all his people, the Mercurian was cold and businesslike when it came to a job. And—much as he would have liked the idea—it didn’t fit into the strategy.

“Halt and state name,” snapped a guard suddenly, presenting a zam-gun. He was a Martian, grinning ferociously.

“Hendrin’s my name. I’m a member of Darrien’s raiders, and I’m bringing this girl to sell to him.”

The Martian studied Elissa brazenly, then said, “Very well. You can pass. Take her to Dorvis Graal’s office, and he’ll talk to you.”

Hendrin nodded and moved ahead past the guard and into the compound of buildings surrounding Darrien’s lofty palace.

Dorvis Graal, Darrien’s Viceroy and the Chief of Canalopolis’ Security Police, was a Venusian. He looked up from a cluttered desk as Hendrin and the girl entered. There was a bleak, crafty glint in his faceted eyes; his beak of a nose seemed to jab forward at the Mercurian, and the deadly stinging-tail went flick-flick ominously.

“Who are you, Mercurian?”

“The name is Hendrin. I’ve recently joined Darrien’s forces.”

“Odd. I don’t remember seeing a dossier on you.”

Hendrin shrugged. “This red tape is beyond me. All I know is I signed on to fight for Darrien, and I have something I think might interest him.”

“You mean the girl?” Dorvis Graal said. He squinted at her. “She’s an Earth colonist, isn’t she?”

“From Planetoid Eleven. I think our lord Darrien might be interested in her.”

Dorvis Graal chuckled harshly. “Possibly he will—but if he is, there’ll be the devil to pay when Meryola, Darrien’s mistress, finds out!”

“That’s Darrien’s problem,” the blue Mercurian said. “But I’m in need of cash. How can I get to see Darrien?”

“Darrien wouldn’t bother with you. But let me think about this for a moment. What would you consider a fair price for the wench?”

“Two hundred credas and a captaincy in Darrien’s forces.”

The Venusian smiled derisively. “Mars has two moons, as well. Why not ask for one of those?”

“I’ve named my price,” said Hendrin.

“Let me look at the girl,” Dorvis Graal rose, flicking his bushy tail from side to side, and stepped forward. “These rags obscure the view,” he said, ripping away what remained of Elissa’s clothing. Her body, thus revealed, was pure white for a moment—until suffused by a bright pink blush. She started to cover herself with her hands, but Dorvis Graal calmly slapped her wrists away from her body. “I can’t see if you do that,” he said.

After a lengthy appraisal he looked up. “A fair wench,” he remarked. “Perhaps Darrien will expend a hundred credas or so. Certainly no more.”

“And the captaincy?”

“I can always ask,” said the Venusian mockingly.

Hendrin frowned. “What do you mean, you can ask? Don’t I get to talk to Darrien?”

“I’ll handle the transaction,” said Dorvis Graal. “Darrien doesn’t care to be bothered by every Mercurian who wanders by with a bare-bottomed beauty he’s picked up in a raid. You wait here, and I’ll show him the girl.”

“Sorry,” Hendrin said quickly. He threw his cloak over the girl’s shoulders. “Either I see Darrien myself or it’s no deal. I’ll keep the girl myself rather than let myself be cheated out of her.”

Dorvis Graal’s whip-like tail went rigid with anger for an instant—but then, as he saw Hendrin apparently meant what he said, he relaxed. “Just a minute, there.”

Hendrin and the girl were nearly at the door. “What?”

“I’ll let you in,” he said. “I’ll let you see Darrien and take him the girl. It’s rare to let a common soldier in, but in this case perhaps it can be done.”

“And how much do I bribe you?”

“Crudely put,” said the Venusian. “But I ask no money of you. Simply that—if Darrien, for some reason, should not care to buy the girl, I get her. Free.”

Hendrin scowled, but his active mind had already jumped to that conclusion. It was too bad for the girl, of course, but what of that? At least he’d definitely get to see Darrien this way—which was his whole plan. And the chance of Darrien’s turning down the girl was slim.

“Fair enough,” he said aloud. The girl uttered a little gasp of mingled shame and rage at this latest bargain. “How do I reach Darrien?”

“I’ll give you a pass to the tunnel leading to the throne-room. The rest is up to you. But remember this: you won’t live long if you try to cheat me.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Hendrin said, meaning it. He accepted the pass from Dorvis Graal, grinned wolfishly, and seized the girl’s arm. “Which way do I go?”

“The tunnel entrance is down there,” Dorvis Graal said, pointing. “And here’s hoping Darrien isn’t in a buying mood today.” He leered suggestively as Hendrin led the girl away.

Lon Archman watched, puzzled as the Mercurian and the girl disappeared into Dorvis Graal’s office. He had followed them this far without difficulty—but now that he was within Darrien’s compound, he had no idea where he was heading now. His body writhed impatiently, longing for action, but his mind kept careful check, holding him back. This was a game that had to be played cautiously.

The Mercurian was selling the girl to Darrien. That seemed like a good dodge, thought Archman—except where was he going to get another girl to take to the tyrant? He’d have to find some other way of working himself into the palace. It was too late to overpower the Mercurian and take the girl from the Planetoids to Darrien himself.

Or was it? He wondered…

Suddenly the door of Dorvis Graal’s office opened and Hendrin and the girl stepped out into the street again. Archman noticed that the girl no longer wore her tattered clothes; she had been stripped bare in the Viceroy’s office, it seemed. Now she wore the Mercurian’s cloak loosely around her shoulders, but it concealed little.

And Hendrin was clutching some sort of paper in his hand. A pass?

Yes. It had to be a pass. A pass to see Darrien!

A plan formed itself instantly in Archman’s mind, and he broke from the shadows and dashed toward Dorvis Graal’s office just as the girl and Mercurian disappeared into another door.

A figure stepped forward to intercept him after he had run no more than a dozen paces. Archman felt a stiff-armed fist hurl him back, and he stared into the barrel of a cocked zam-gun.

“Where are you heading so fast?” The speaker was a Martian guard.

“I have to see Dorvis Graal. It’s on a matter of high treason! Darrien’s in danger of an assassin!”

“What?” The Martian’s expression shifted from one of menacing hostility to keen interest. “Are you lying?”

“Of course not, you fool. Now get out of my way and let me get to the Viceroy before it’s too late!”

The zam-gun was holstered and Archman burst past. He reached Dorvis Graal’s office, flung open the door, and bowed humbly to the glittering-eyed Venusian, who looked up in some astonishment.

“Who are you? What’s the meaning of this?”

“I’m Lon Archman of Darrien’s brigade. Quick, sir—have a Mercurian and a girl been through here in the last minute or so?”

“Yes, but—say, what business is this of yours?”

“That Mercurian’s an assassin!” Archman got as much excitement into his voice as he could manage. “I’ve been following him all morning, but he shook me just outside the entrance to the compound. He intends to kill Darrien!”

A mixture of emotions played suddenly over the Viceroy’s face—greed, fear, curiosity, disbelief. “Indeed? Well, that can easily be stopped. He’s in the tunnel, on the way to Darrien. I’ll have the tunnel guards intercept him and send him up to Froljak the Interrogator for some questioning. Thanks for your information, Archman.”

“May I go after him, sir?”

“What?”

“Into the tunnel. I want to kill that Mercurian, sir. Myself. I don’t want your tunnel guards to do it.”

“They’re not going to kill him,” Dorvis Graal said impatiently. “They’ll just hold him for questioning, and if you’re telling the truth that he’s an assassin—”

Archman scowled. This wasn’t getting him into the tunnel, where he wanted to go. “Let me go after him, sir,” he pleaded. “As a reward. A reward for telling you. I want to be in on the capture.”

Dorvis Graal seemed to relent. It was pretty flimsy, Archman thought, but maybe—

Yes. “Here’s a pass to the tunnel,” the Viceroy said. “Get going, now—and report back to me when it’s all over.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks!”

Archman seized the pass and streaked for the tunnel at top speed.

After he had left, Dorvis Graal lifted the speaking-tube that gave him instant contact with the tunnel guards.

“Holgo?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Has a Mercurian passed through the tunnels yet? He’s got a naked wench with him.”

“Yes, sir. He and the girl came by this way two minutes ago. He had a pass, so I let him through. Is there anything wrong?”

“No—no, not at all,” Dorvis Graal said. Craftily he reasoned that even if the Mercurian reached Darrien safely, which he seemed likely to do, he’d probably not be facing the leader himself but only an expendable orthysynthetic duplicate. There was always time to catch him, if he really were the assassin.

And as for the Earthman—well, just to be safe Dorvis Graal decided to pick him up. He had seemed just a little too eager to get into the tunnel.

Into the tube he said, “There’s an Earthman coming into the tunnel now. He’s also got a pass, but I want you to pick him up and hold him for questioning. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dorvis Graal broke the contact and sat back. He wondered which one was lying, the Mercurian or the Earthman—or both. And just what would happen if an assassin reached Darrien.

Perhaps, Dorvis Graal thought, it might mean I’d reach power. Perhaps.

He sat back, an amused smile on his cold face, and contemplated the possibilities.

Hendrin reached the end of the long corridor and folded Dorvis Graal’s pass in his pocket. He would probably need it to get out again.

He turned to the girl. “Pull the cloak tight around you, lass. I don’t want Darrien to see your nakedness until the proper moment. And try to brighten up and look more desirable.”

“Why should I?” she sniffled. “Why should I care what I look like?”

Patiently the Mercurian said, “Because if Darrien doesn’t buy you I have to give you to that Venusian out there. And, believe me, you’ll be a lot better off with Darrien than in the arms of that foul-smelling tailed one out there. So cheer up; it’s the lesser of the two evils.” He closed the cloak around her and together they advanced toward Darrien’s throne room.

A stony-faced Martian guard stood outside the throne room. “What want you with Darrien?”

“I bring him a girl.” Hendrin pointed to Elissa, then showed the guard Dorvis Graal’s pass. “The Viceroy himself sent me to Darrien.”

“You can pass, then,” grunted the Martian. He opened the door and Hendrin stepped in.

It was a scene of utter magnificence. The vast room was lined from wall to wall with a fantastically costly yangskin rug, except in the very center, where a depression had been scooped out and a small pool created. In the pool two nude earthgirls swam, writhing sinuously for Darrien’s delight.

Darrien. Hendrin’s eyes slowly turned toward the throne at the side of the vast room. It was a bright platinum pedestal upon which Darrien and his mistress sat. Hendrin studied them while waiting to be noticed.

So that’s Darrien—or his double. The galaxy’s most brilliant and most evil man sat tensely on his throne, beady eyes darting here and there, radiating an unmistakably malevolent intelligence. Darrien was a small, shrunken man, his face a complex network of wrinkles and valleys. Darrien or his double, Hendrin reminded himself again. The possibility was slim that Darrien himself was here; more likely he was elsewhere in the palace, operating the dummy on the throne by a remote-control device he himself had conceived.

And at Darrien’s side, the lovely Meryola, Darrien’s mistress. She was clad in filmy vizosheen that revealed more than it hid, and the Mercurian was startled at the beauty revealed. It was known that Meryola’s beauty was enhanced by drugs from Darrien’s secret laboratories, but even so she was ravishing in her own right.

Hendrin had to admire Darrien. After the destruction of Venusia five years ago, a lesser man might have drifted into despair—but not Darrien. Goaded by the fierce rage and desire for vengeance that burnt within him, he had simply moved on to Mars and established here a kingdom twice as magnificent as that the Earthmen had destroyed on Venus.

He was talking now to a pair of bushy-tailed Venusians who stood before the throne. Lieutenants, obviously, receiving some sort of instructions. Hendrin made a mental note to find out who they were later.

Finally Darrien was through. The tyrant looked up and fixed Hendrin in his piercing gaze.

“Who are you, Mercurian, and what do you want here?”

Darrien’s voice was astonishingly deep and forceful for a man so puny in body. For a moment Hendrin was shaken by the man’s commanding tones.

Then he said, “I be Hendrin, sire, of your majesty’s legions. I bring with me a girl whom perhaps—”

“I might purchase,” snapped Darrien. “That fool Dorvis Graal! He knows well that I can’t be troubled with such petty things.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Hendrin said with glib humility, “but the Viceroy said that this girl was of such surpassing beauty that he couldn’t set a proper price himself, and sent me to you with her.”

Hendrin noticed an interesting series of reactions taking place on the face of the tyrant’s mistress. Meryola had been staring curiously at the girl, who stood slumped beneath the shapeless cloak. As Hendrin spoke, Meryola seemed to stiffen as if fearing a rival; her breasts, half-visible through her gauzy garment, rose and fell faster, and her eyes flashed. Hendrin smiled inwardly. There were possibilities here.

Darrien was frowning, bringing even more wrinkles to his face. Finally he said, “Well, then, let’s see this paragon of yours. Unveil her—but if she is not all you say, both of you shall die, and Dorvis Graal in the bargain!”

Hendrin approached the girl. “Three lives depend on your beauty, now—including your own.”

“Why should I want to live?” she murmured.

Hendrin ignored it and ripped away the cloak. Elissa stood before Darrien totally nude. To his relief Hendrin saw the girl was cooperating; she stood tall and proud, her breasts outthrust, her pale body quivering as if with desire. Darrien stared at her for a long moment. Meryola, by his side, seemed ready to explode.

At length Darrien said, “You may live. She is a lovely creature. Cover her again, so all eyes may not see her.”

Hendrin obediently tossed the cloak over her shoulders and bowed to Darrien.

“Name your price.”

“Two hundred credas—and a captaincy in your forces.”

He held his breath. Darrien turned to Elissa.

“How old are you, girl?”

“Nineteen.”

“Has this Mercurian laid lustful hands on you?”

“I’ve never been with any man, sire,” the girl said, blushing.

“Umm.” To Hendrin Darrien said, “The captaincy is yours, and five hundred credas. Come, girl; let me show you where your quarters will be.”

Darrien rose from the throne, and Hendrin was surprised to see the man was a dwarf, no more than four feet high. He strode rapidly down the pedestal to Elissa’s side. She was more than a foot taller than he.

He led her away. Hendrin, his head bowed, glanced up slowly and saw Meryola fuming on the throne. Now was the time to act, he thought. Now.

“Your Highness!” he whispered.

She looked down at him. “I should have you flayed,” she said harshly. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I fear I’ve brought your Highness a rival,” Hendrin said. “For this I beg your pardon; I had no way of knowing Darrien sought concubines for himself. And I sorely needed the money.”

“Enough,” Meryola said. Her face was black with anger, but still radiant. “Out of my sight, and let me deal with the problem you’ve brought me.”

“A moment, milady. May I speak?”

“Speak,” she said impatiently.

He stared at her smouldering gray-flecked eyes. “Milady, I wish to undo the damage I’ve caused you this day.”

“How could you do that?”

Hendrin thought quickly. “If you’ll go to my lord Darrien and occupy his attention for the next hour, I’ll slip within and find the girl. You need only sign an order testifying that she’s a traitor to Darrien, and I’ll convey her to the dungeons—where she’ll die before Darrien knows she’s missing.”

Meryola glanced at him curiously. “You’re a strange one, Hendrin the Mercurian. First you bring this ravishing creature to Darrien—then, when his back is turned, you offer to remove her again. Odd loyalty, Mercurian!”

Hendrin saw that he had blundered. “I but meant, milady, that I had no idea my act would have such consequences. I want the chance to redeem myself—for to bring a shadow between Darrien and Meryola would be to weaken all of our hopes.”

“Nicely spoken,” Meryola said, and Hendrin realized he had recovered control. He looked at her bluntly now, saw tiny crows’ feet beginning to show at the edges of her eyes. She was a lovely creature, but an aging one. He knew that she would be ultimately of great use to him.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll endeavor to separate Darrien from his new plaything—and while I’m amusing our lord, get you inside and take the girl away. I’ll double his five hundred credas if he never sees her again.”

“I thank you,” Hendrin said. The Mercurian offered her his arm as she dismounted from the throne. He felt a current of anticipation tingling in him. He was on his way, now. Already he had won Darrien’s approval—and, if he could only manage to convey the girl to the dungeons without Darrien’s discovering who had done it, he would be in the favor of the tyrant’s mistress as well. It was a good combination.

Legend had it that only Meryola knew when Darrien himself sat on the throne and when a duplicate. He would need her help when the time comes.

Exultantly he thought: Oh, Krodrang, Krodrang, you sent the right man for this job!

Quietly he slipped from the throne room in search of Elissa, feeling very proud of himself.

The entrance to the tunnel was guarded by two Venusians and a fin-handed Plutonian. Lon Archman approached and said, “Is this the way to Darrien’s throne room?”

“It is. What would you want there?”

Archman flashed the Viceroy’s pass. “This is all the explanation you should need.”

They stepped aside and allowed him through. The corridor was long and winding and lit by the bright glow of levon-tubes. There was no sign of the Mercurian or the girl up ahead.

That was all right, Archman thought. He had no particular interest in them, so long as he were inside the Palace itself. And his ruse had worked, evidently; here he was, with a pass to the throne room.

Trotting, he rounded a bend in the corridor and halted suddenly. Three Martians blocked his way, forming a solid bar across the tunnel.

“Stay right there, Earthman.”

“I’ve got a pass from Dorvis Graal,” he snapped impatiently. “Let me go.” He smelled the foul musk of the Martians as they clustered around him.

“Hand over the pass,” ordered the foremost of the trio.

Suspiciously Archman gave him the slip. The Martian read it, nodded complacently, and ripped the pass into a dozen pieces, which he scattered in the air.

“Hey! You can’t do that! Dorvis Graal—”

“Dorvis Graal himself has just phoned me to revoke your pass,” the Martian informed him. “You’re to be held for questioning as a possible assassin.”

Grimly Archman saw what had happened. His 97.003% rating had fooled him into thinking he was some sort of superman. Naturally, the Viceroy had been suspicious of the strange-faced, over-eager Earthman with the wild story, and had ordered his pickup. Possibly the Mercurian and the girl were safely within, or else they had been picked up too. It didn’t make any difference. The wily Viceroy was cautiously taking no chances in the affair.

Almost instantly Archman’s zam-gun was in his hand, and a second later the Martian’s tusked face was a blossoming nightmare, features disappearing in a crackle of atomized dust. The man sagged to the floor. Archman turned to the other two, but they had moved already. A club descended on his arm with stunning force and the zam-gun dropped from his numbed fingers. He struck out with his fist, feeling a stiff jolt of pain run through him as he connected.

“Dorvis Graal said not to kill him,” said one of the Martians.

Archman whirled, trying to keep eyes on both of them at once, but it was impossible. As one rocked back from the force of the Earthman’s blow, the other drew near. Archman felt hot breath behind him, turned—

And a copperwood club cracked soundly against the side of his head. He fought desperately for consciousness, realizing too late that he had blundered terribly. Then the club hit him again and a searing tide of pain swept up around him, blotting out tunnel and Martians and everything.

Hendrin confronted the shivering Elissa. She stood before a mirror clad only in a single sheer garment Darrien had given her.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Now, before Darrien comes back!”

“Where will you take me?”

“Away from here. I’ll hide you in the dungeons until it’s safe to get you out. Now that I’ve been paid, I don’t feel any need to give you to Darrien—and the tyrant’s mistress will pay me double to get you out.”

She smiled acidly. “I see. I suppose I’ll then be subject to your tender mercies again—until the next time you decide to sell me. Sorry, but I’m not going. I’ll take my chances here. Darrien probably takes good care of his women.”

“Meryola will kill you!”

“Possibly. But how long could I live with you outside? No, I’ll stay here, now that you’ve sold me.”

Hendrin cursed and pulled her to him. He hit her once, carefully, on the chin. She shuddered and went sprawling backward; he caught her—she was surprisingly light—and tossed her over his shoulder. Footsteps were audible at the door.

He glanced around, found a rear exit, and slipped through. A staircase beckoned. The Mercurian, bearing his unconscious burden, ran.

Through a dim haze of pain Lon Archman heard voices. Someone was saying, in a Martian’s guttural tones, “Put this one in a cell, will you?”

Another voice, with a Plutonian’s liquid accents, said, “Strange the dungeons should be so busy at this hour. But a few moments ago a Mercurian brought an Earthgirl here to be kept safe—a would-be assassin, I’m told.”

“As is this one. Here, lock him up. Dorvis Graal will be here to interrogate him later, and I suppose there’ll be the usual consequences.”

“That means two executions tomorrow,” said the Plutonian gleefully.

“Two?”

“Yes. The Lady Meryola sent me instructions just before you came that the Earthgirl is to die in the morning, without fail. Now the Earthman comes.” The jailer chuckled. “I think I’ll put ’em in the same cell. Let ’em enjoy their last night alive!”

Archman dizzily felt himself being thrown roughly into a cold room, heard a door clang shut behind him. He opened one eye painfully. Someone was sobbing elsewhere in the cell.

He looked. It was the Earthgirl, the one the Mercurian had been with. She lay in a crumpled, pathetic little heap in the far corner of the cell, sobbing. After a moment she looked up.

“It’s you—the Earthman!”

He nodded. “We’ve met before.”

A spasm of sobbing shook her.

“Ease up,” Archman said soothingly, despite the pain that flashed up and down his own battered body. “Stop crying!”

“Stop crying? Why? Why, when they’re going to kill us both tomorrow?”