husbandedmine." He laughed shrilly. "So you see, I have the only ray-gun in theworld. It shall make me master of the Earth." Again he laughed wildly.
"Now I'm going to kill you." The black cylinder leveled, and Danestared at death. Alone, he would almost have welcomed it, but thethought of the girl in the filthy power of this beast seared throughhim. Jung Sin, the little red worms of madness crawling in his brain,paused for a final taunt.
"Let the thought of the white dove in my arms cons--" Allan's sandaledfoot shot out into the man's stomach. In the same movement his handscame down, one snatched at and caught the ray-gun, the other smashedinto the yellow face. Jung Sin lifted to the drive of fist and foot,crashed into the wall, fell to its foot. From the crumpled heap rose ashriek, a long piercing wail that ended in a gurgle.
* * * * *
Dane froze, the captured cylinder in his hand, and listened. Therewere others of the unholy band about. Had they heard? Dim sounds cameto him. He leaped to the door, flung it open. Faint footfalls, adistant shout, came from far down the corridor, away from thedirection of the stairs. Allan glimpsed dark forms, rushing towardhim. He darted back to the girl, swung her, still unconscious, to hisshoulder, and was out. The floor was slippery beneath his feet. Hereeled as he ran, and the sounds of pursuit gained on him. The heavyburden weighed him down, the dim hallway stretched endlessly beforehim. From close behind came hoarse, guttural shouts that chilled him.
The pack was not twenty feet away when Allan reached the stair door.He slammed it behind him, heard the latch click. He mounted thenarrow, winding steps with the last dregs of energy draining from him,and heard a crash below that told of the collapse of the barrier. Buthe had reached his plane, had flung the girl into it, and was pullinghimself in when the first of the pursuers burst out on the roof.
Allan thrust home the throttle, the helio-vanes whined, and his'copter leaped skyward. He glimpsed men running across the roof; theyvanished behind a leafy arbor. Dane turned the nose of his crafttoward Sugar Loaf, amethyst in the haze of distance, but from thatgreen arch a black aircraft zoomed up and shot after him. The Americanshook his head free of the cobwebs of fatigue, and veered westward. Hemust not lead the Easterners to Anthony's refuge.
Through the dead air, over a dead world they shot--Allan's white flierand the ebony plane with the bloody emblem of the seven-pointed staremblazoned on its nose. Allan wheeled again as the pursuers reachedhis level on a long, climbing slant.
But they continued rising! They, were five hundred, a thousand feetabove him. Then they leveled out, and dived down. Their strategyflashed on him--they were planning to shepherd Dane down, to forcehim to land where they would have him at their mercy. And their craftwas the faster!
* * * * *
The black ship was right on his tail; Allan flicked his controls andhis 'copter slid sidewise on one wing. The other plane banked in atight arc and sped for him; Dane countered with a lightning loop thatbrought him behind his enemy. His gray eyes were steel-hard, his lipswere a straight, thin gash. The other ship was faster, but his,lighter and smaller, was more flexible. He could not get away,but--They flipped up and back in an inside loop; Allan's little craftbarrel-rolled from under.
This sort of thing could not last forever. With each maneuver he waslosing altitude. Serrated roof-tops were already a scant fifteenhundred feet beneath him, gaunt gray fingers that reached up to pluckhim from the sky.
Only half Allan's mind was concentrated on the aerial acrobatics. Theother half plodded a weary treadmill. In the nullite chamber beneathSugar Loaf's summit, he thought, were three couples whose knowledgeand wisdom had preserved them for the repeopling of the Earth. Theirchildren, and their children's children--starting from such a sourcewhat heights might not the new race attain?
On the other hand, the ship that pursued him carried cowards who hadfailed in mankind's supreme test; men who had lost their manhood,ravening demi-beasts, half mad with loneliness and desire. As long asthey remained alive they would be a menace to those others, an uncleanband that would forever sully the new world with the old world'sevils. Even should Allan himself escape them by some trick of fortune,they must inevitably find the little band of men--and women. A coldchill ran through Dane as he visioned the result.
He was not afraid to die. And the girl in the cabin behind him--betterthat she never awake than that she be the sport of Ra-Jamba's kind. Agrim resolve formed itself, and he watched for a chance to put it intoexecution.
It came. At the end of a shifting maneuver the black 'copter was aboveand behind the white. Dane's fingers played swiftly over the controlboard. His ship flipped over backward, rolling on its long axis as itsomersaulted. It was directly beneath the other. Then the helio-vanesscreamed, and the American plane surged straight up!
* * * * *
A resounding crash split the air. Metal ripped, a fuel tank exploded.A black wing scaled earthward, zigzagging oddly. Dane's craft and theEastern ship clung in an embrace of death. They started to drop. But,queerly, the black plane fell faster, left the white one behind as itsdescent gained speed till it splashed against concrete below. TheAmerican helicopter was dropping, too, but sluggishly. Something wasbuoying it up. Allan, momentarily struggling out of the welter ofblackness and pain into which the concussion had thrown him, heard afamiliar whine. His helio-vanes were still twirling, limply,stutteringly, bent and twisted, but gripping the air sufficiently tobrake his crushed plane's fall.
Afterwards, Allan figured it out. The black pilot had slipped sidewisein that last frantic moment. His effort to escape had been futile, butinstead of his ship's body, Dane's plane had struck the wing and tornit off. The impact had irreparably damaged the American craft, but thehelicopter motor and vanes had somehow continued to function--justenough. The stanch alumino-steeloid fuselage, though bent anddisfigured, had fended the full force of the crash from Allan and hispassenger.
Just now, however, Allan Dane was doing no figuring. Pain welledbehind his eyes, his left arm was limp, and a broken stanchion jammedhis feet so they couldn't move. The vane motor stuttered and stopped,the plane floor dropped away from beneath him, then thudded againstsomething. The jar jolted Allan into a gray land where there wasnothing....
* * * * *
Someone was talking. He couldn't make out the words, but the sound waspleasant. It soothed the throb, throb in his head. Gosh, that had beensome party last night, celebrating Flight ZLX's first prize inmaneuvers! Great bunch, but would they be as good in real war--sure tocome soon? Dane's stuff had too much kick; he must have passed outearly.
Somebody shaking him.
"Lea' me 'lone; wanna sleep."
"Oh, wake up, please wake up."
Girl's voice. Nice voice. Voice like that should have pretty face.Better not look, though; too bad if she had buck teeth or squint eyes.
"Oh, what will I do? You're not dead? Please, you're not dead?"
"Don't think so. Head hurts too much." Allan opened his eyes. "Wrongagain. Mus' be dead. Only angel could look like that. Not in rightplace, though. Mistake in shipping directions--tags switched orsomething."
A cold hand lay across his brow, and he felt it quiver. "Don't talklike that. Wake up." There was hysteria in the limpid tones.
Allan's brain mists cleared, and he grinned wryly. "I remember now.You all right?"
"Yes. But who are you? Are you Anthony Starr?"
"No. But Anthony sent me." Allan struggled to rise. He saw twistedwreckage beside him. He gasped. "I seem to be a bit conked. Butwhat--what do you know about Anthony?"
The girl fumbled in her garments, brought out a paper. Allan foundthat he could move his right arm without much pain. He took theyellowed sheet, and read the faded writing.
Dear Naomi:
You are asleep, and we have been standing by your couch, drinking in the dear sight of you. You sleep soundly, tired as you are by the l
ong-promised story we told you on this, your sixteenth birthday, the tale of how the world you know only from our teachings was destroyed, of how we planned with our friends to escape the general fate, of how an accident separated us from them and immured us here alone, of how you were born in this room and why you have lived here all your short life. We told you all that, but there is one thing we did not tell you.
Our food supply has run low, and the gas outside shows no signs of abatement. With careful husbanding we could all three live for another four months, but there is no prospect that we shall be released in so short a time. Alone, you will have sufficient for a year. If we had had some of Carl Thorman's life-suspension serum--but it was his perfection of that which caused the change of plan to a common