mister. She'sprobably the fastest thing this side of the Jovian moons, except forthose experimental one-man rocket-bombs down at Neptune Station. Butchasing a big tub in a one-man space-bound coffin--" here Pitchblendused the vernacular for the tiny one-man experimental ships--"ain'tgoing to do anybody any good. Best thing you can do is track _Mozart'sLady_ by radar and hope she'll head sunward. Then they could intercepther closer in."
But _Mozart's Lady_ did not head sunward. Radar tracking confirmed thismoments later. _Mozart's Lady_ was outward bound for Pluto's orbit. And,with Pluto and Neptune currently in conjunction, that could even mean alanding, although, the police decided, that wasn't likely. There were nosettlements on Pluto. Pluto was too weird. For the strangest reason in asolar system and a galaxy of wonders, Pluto was quite uninhabitable.More likely, _Mozart's Lady_ would follow Pluto's orbit around, thenmake a dash sunward....
The radar officer threw up his hands. "I give up," he said. "She'sheading for Pluto's orb all right. Call Neptune Station."
"Neptune Station, sir?"
"You bet. This job's too big for me. The brass will want to handle it."
Seconds later, sub-space crackled with energy as the call was putthrough from Triton City to Neptune Station.
* * * * *
Whatever else history would write about him, it wouldcertainly call Johnny Mayhem the strangest--and literally mostdeath-defying--test-pilot in history. Of course, testing the sleekexperimental beauties out of Neptune Station and elsewhere wasn'tMayhem's chief occupation. He was, in a phrase, a trouble-shooter forthe Galactic League. Whenever he had a spare few weeks, having completedan assignment ahead of schedule in his latest of bodies, he was likelyto turn up at some testing station or other and volunteer for work. Hewas never turned down, although the Galactic League didn't approve.Mayhem was probably the galaxy's best pilot, with incredible reflexesand an utter indifference toward death.
For the past two weeks, having completed what turned out to be aneasier-than-expected assignment on Neptune, he had been piloting thespace-bound coffins out of Neptune Station, and with very satisfactoryexperimental results.
A few minutes ago he had been called into the station director's office,but when he entered he was surprised to see the Galactic League Firstmanof Neptune waiting for him.
"Surprised, eh?" the Firstman demanded.
"I'll bet you want me to quit test-flying," Mayhem said with a smilewhich, clearer than words, told the Firstman his advice would berejected.
The Firstman smiled too, "Why, no, Mayhem. As a matter of fact, I wantyou to take one of the coffins into deep space."
"Maybe something's wrong with my hearing," Mayhem said.
"No. You heard it right. Of course, it's up to you. Everything you do,you volunteer."
"Let's hear it, Firstman."
So the Firstman of Neptune told Johnny Mayhem about _Mozart's Lady_which, six hours ago, had left Triton for Pluto's orbit with aneccentric wealthy widow, a hundred girls, and a desperate escapedkiller.
"The only thing we have out here fast enough to overtake them, Mayhem,is the one-man coffins. The only man we have who can fly them is you.What do you say?"
Mayhem's answer was a question, but the question didn't really requirean answer. Mayhem asked: "What are we waiting for?"
The Firstman grinned. He had expected such an answer, of course. Thewhole galaxy, let alone the solar system, knew the Mayhem legend. Everyworld which had an Earthman population and a Galactic League post,however small, had a body in cold storage, waiting for Johnny Mayhem ifhis services were required. But of course no one knew precisely whenMayhem's services might be required. No one knew exactly under whatcircumstances the Galactic League Council, operating from the hub of theGalaxy, might summon Mayhem. And only a very few people, including thoseat the Hub and the Galactic League Firstmen on civilized worlds andObservers on primitive worlds, knew the precise mechanics of Mayhem'scoming.
Johnny Mayhem, a bodiless sentience. Mayhem--Johnny Marlow, then--whohad been chased from Earth, a pariah and a criminal, eight years ago,who had been mortally wounded on a wild planet deep within theSaggitarian Swarm, whose life had been saved--after a fashion--by thewhite magic of that planet. Mayhem, doomed now to possible immortalityas a bodiless sentience, an _elan_, which could occupy and activate acorpse if it had been frozen properly ... an _elan_ doomed to wandereternally because it could not remain in one body for more than a monthwithout body and _elan_ perishing. Mayhem, who had dedicated hisstrange, lonely life to the service of the Galactic League because anormal life and normal social relations were not possible for him....
"One thing, Mayhem," the Firstman said, now, on Neptune. "How muchlonger you have in that body of yours?"
"Five days. Possibly six."
"That doesn't give you much time. If you're caught out there when yourmonth is up--"
"I won't be. We're wasting time talking about it."
"--it would mean your death."
"Then let's get started."
* * * * *
The Firstman stared at him levelly. "You're a brave man, Mayhem."
"Let's say I'm not afraid to die. I've been a living dead man for eightyears. Come on."
One of the so-called coffins, a tiny one-man ship barely big enough fora prone man, food concentrates and water, was already waiting at thestation spacefield.
Ten minutes after hearing about _Mozart's Lady_, without fanfare, Mayhemblasted off in pursuit.
* * * * *
Maintaining top speed all the way, House Bartock brought _Mozart's Lady_across almost two billion miles of space from Neptune's to Pluto's orbitin three days. He was delighted with the speed. It would have taken theaverage space-tub ten days to two weeks and, since as far as Bartockknew there were nothing but average space-tubs on Neptune, that gave hima considerable head-start.
It was Jane Cummings-First Violin who discovered Bartock's identity.Bartock was studying the star-map at the time and considered himselfsafe from discovery because he kept the control door of _Mozart's Lady_locked. However, Jane Cummings had established something of a liaisonwith the pilot outward bound from Earth and Mars, so she had been givena spare key which she'd kept, secretly, all the time the symphony was onTriton. Now, curious about the new pilot for the same reason that theminers on Triton had been curious about the symphony, Jane made her wayforward, inserted her key in the lock, and pushed open the control door.
"Hello there," she said.
House Bartock whirled. The turning of a key in the lock had so unnervedhim--it was the last thing he expected--that he forgot to shut off thestar-map. Its tell-tale evidence glowed on the wall over his head.
"What do you want?" he managed to ask politely.
"Oh, just to say hello."
"You already said it."
Jane Cummings pouted. "You needn't bite my head off. What's your name?Mine's Jane, and I play the violin. It wouldn't hurt you to be polite."
Bartock nodded, deciding that a little small talk wouldn't hurt if hecould keep the girl from becoming suspicious. That was suddenlyimportant. If this girl had a key to the control room, for all he knewthere could be others.
"My, you have been hurrying," Jane said. "I could tell by theacceleration. You must be trying to break the speed records orsomething. I'll bet we're almost to Earth--"
Her voice trailed off and her mouth hung open. At first Bartock didn'tknow what was the matter. Then he saw where she was staring.
The star-map.
"We're not heading for Earth!" she cried.
Bartock walked toward her. "Give me that key," he said. "You're going tohave to stay here with me. Give me that key."
Jane backed away. "You--you couldn't be our pilot. If you were--"
"The key. I don't want to hurt you."
Bartock lunged. Jane turned and ran, slamming the door behind her. Itclanged, and echoed. The echo didn't stop. Bartock, on the point ofop
ening the door and sprinting down the companionway after her, stopped.
It wasn't the echo of metal slamming against metal. It was the radarwarning.
Either _Mozart's Lady_ was within dangerous proximity of a meteor, or aship was following them.
Bartock ran to the radar screen.
The pip was unmistakable. A ship was following them.
A ship as fast--or faster--than _Mozart's Lady_.
Cursing, Bartock did things with the controls. _Mozart's Lady_, alreadystraining, increased its speed. Acceleration flung Bartock back in thepilot's chair. Pluto loomed dead