The Planet Killers

  “No sale,” Storm repeated.

  “You damned blockhead, why not? Isn’t a million good enough for you? You can invest it and have an income for life. You can retire when you’re still a kid.”

  “I’m not selling out. Why should I sell you a billion dollars’ worth of commercial-grade ore for a million dollars, Ellins?”

  Ellins was sweating heavily now. “Take two million, then. Don’t be a fool.”

  “Not two million either.”

  “Five?” Ellins said hoarsely.

  “No, and not fifty.” Storm smiled. “I’ll listen to you if you raise the bid a little more, though. Let’s say, half a billion dollars. That’s what I call real money. I’d be willing to turn the asteroid over to you without prejudice, for that. Maybe I’d do a little better if I held my rights and mined it myself, but I’d settle for half a billion.”

  “Funny man,” Ellins said bitterly. “My final offer is five million. It’s an outrageously high price, and I’ll get roasted for paying it, but I want to get rid of you. You can take it or leave it.”

  “Suppose I leave it?” Storm asked.

  Ellins glanced sharply up at him, his eyes no longer crafty at all, but simply mean and beady. “Then we’d have to play rough with you, Storm. We can’t afford to let you go back to Earth and start howling about how UMC swindled you. We’d just simply have to play rough.”

  “How rough?”

  “About as rough as it can get,” Ellins said. “If you don’t agree to sell out, you’ll have an accident. We’ll take you back over to where your ship is, and we’ll arrange it so your face-plate pops open. A little fluke with the servo controls, that’s all. One of those one-in-a-million things. Then we put you in your ship and plot a nice orbit for you. Say, a hyperbolic orbit clear out of the solar system. Or maybe a straight line into the sun. Getting rid of bodies is easy, out here. Lots of room, hardly anybody to see.”

  Storm had no doubt the UMC man meant it. For a long, crackling moment the two of them eyed each other in silence. Then Storm said, “That’s not much of a choice, is it? Either I sell out for beans, or you murder me?”

  “Five million isn’t beans.”

  “Compared with the value of this asteroid, it is. The ore alone is worth two hundred times that. And then there’s the thing in the cave.”

  Sudden fury blazed in Ellins’ eyes. “You forget what you saw in the cave, you hear? You just wipe that out of your mind! Any deal we make, it’s going to include buying your silence about that cave.”

  “What is that thing in there, Ellins?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Just stay off the subject. The subject is your alleged mining claim. Will you sell us a waiver of your claim, or do we have to arrange an accident for you?”

  “I need to think it over,” Storm said. “Can you give me some time?”

  “Sure,” Ellins replied magnanimously. “Take all the time you like. A month, two months—just so long as you stay here where we can watch you. Think it out all the way, Storm. Don’t jump to any rash decisions.” Ellins shook his fist at him in anger, then turned away, his face knotted contemptuously. “Tie him up,” Ellins muttered. “Put him where he can’t get loose and make trouble. We got work to do. We can’t stand around moving our jaws all year.”

  Chapter Ten

  The UMC men tied Storm up with silent efficiency, and made sure he wouldn’t be going anywhere when they got through with him. They used copper baling wire, thin and bright, and he was lucky that he was wearing a spacesuit because the way they trussed him the wire would have cut to the bone if it had touched bare flesh.

  They strapped his wrists together behind his back, and tied his ankles, and for good measure threw in a binding length linking his wrist-bonds to his ankle-bonds. They left him huddled against the wall of the dome, body doubled up and arched backward in a bow. They left him helmetless, so that even if by some miracle he got free of his bonds he would be unable to leave the dome and return to his ship.

  With Storm safely under wraps, the UMC men got back to their main business—building the rocket installation.

  Storm watched sourly. They were well along in their work, he saw. Another few days, perhaps, and the job would be done, or possibly it would take a bit longer, but not much. The rocket banks would be in place, and Ellins would touch a switch and the rocket engines would roar, and the asteroid would be wrenched from the orbit it had followed for maybe three hundred million years, and they would move it across space to some uncluttered part of the heavens, and that would be the end of Storm’s hopes of claiming it.

  He pondered the choice Ellins had given him.

  On the surface, it didn’t look like any sort of real choice. On the one hand, an offer of five million dollars. On the other, death.

  Who would take more than a fraction of a second to make up his mind between two alternatives like those?

  But it was more complicated than that, Storm knew. He couldn’t be certain that Ellins really meant to go through with his threat. Before any murder took place, there would be another war of nerves, of bluff and counterbluff, between him and Ellins. Would Ellins be so eager to kill him if Storm claimed that in a safe-deposit box on Earth there was a full account of the whole story, marked “To be opened if I do not return by January 1, 2019?”

  Would Ellins believe him, though?

  And, Storm asked himself in annoyance, why hadn’t he taken that little precaution? Why had he rushed off alone without arranging in some way for his story to be told in case he met with an “accident” out here?

  No matter. An imaginary safe-deposit box would be as good as a real one, if only he could get Ellins to believe it existed. So there was at least a remote chance he could scare Ellins out of the murder idea, if he worked at it convincingly enough. Ellins was worried about UMC’s reputation, because he was worried about his own status in the cartel. He wouldn’t want to get the company denounced not only for claim-jumping but for murder as well. So maybe—

  But if I sell out , Storm told himself, that’s the end of it. I’ve got no further recourse. I’ve got my five million bucks, and they’ve got their signed waiver of claim, and any yelling I do after that will be laughed off as crank stuff .

  The choice was anything but clear-cut, then. So long as he was still alive, he had at least a remote chance of regaining his legitimate rights to the asteroid—provided he didn’t sign those rights away in blind fear.

  Stick to your guns, he warned himself. Ellins may not be as tough as he tried to sound .

  There was no sense rushing ahead, selling out for a pittance. And five million dollars was a pittance, considering what he knew this asteroid to be worth. No, Storm thought, the thing to do was take a tight grip, hang on to the last moment, try to call Ellins’ bluff. If it really did come down to a choice between signing a waiver and getting murdered, well, he’d take the obvious choice. But he suspected that if he held on, his stubbornness might win him some sort of concession from Ellins.

  Maybe.

  It was the slimmest of chances, but worth trying.

  There was also the matter, Storm thought, of the alien being in the cave. Obviously Ellins and his cohorts knew that the creature was there. Had they made contact with the strange being? Was there some kind of communication between the alien and the UMC men?

  An interesting possibility emerged. Suppose, Storm thought, UMC wanted the asteroid not for its mineral content but for the creature in the cave. Was that possible, he wondered? The asteroid was rich in ores, but UMC had no real need to do all this undercover stuff simply to secure another ore source. But suppose they had some special use for the alien or for the weird machinery in the extra-terrestrial being’s cave.

  Yes, Storm thought. That might explain UMC’s strange eagerness to do him out of the asteroid. But so much of the story was missing that he could not figure out any specific motives. He could only make guesses.

  He shrugged such speculations out of his mind, an
d turned his attention to his bonds. They had done a superb job of packaging him, he saw. By pivoting his body and twisting his spine about as far as it would go, he could get a good look at the way they had tied up his wrists. They had bound him as though he were an escape artist.

  He wasn’t. He didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to get free. He couldn’t reach his wrists either with his feet or with his teeth, nor did straining against the wire do anything but tighten the bonds. As for the wire round his ankles, there was no way of removing that either.

  Hopeless even to think about it.

  Storm lay still. He felt cramped, tense. It was only a few minutes since they had dumped him here, but already he could feel his muscles stiffening up in this unnatural position. In another couple of hours, he would probably be so gnarled he’d be unable to walk even if his bonds miraculously dropped off. He wiggled his shoulders uneasily, tried to stretch his legs. His knees and elbows were beginning to throb. There was the first twinge of pain at his armpits. His fingers and toes were starting to go numb. No one was paying the slightest attention to him. The UMC men were going about their chores, leaving him to writhe and twist as best he could.

  Storm scowled at them. Just let me get hold of you, Ellins , he thought. Let me get my hands on you once, and —

  He recoiled in sudden surprise.

  What was that?

  A sensation in his brain, he realized. It was something like what he had felt before, only the texture was different now. In the cave, there had been a feeling of sliminess when the alien’s mental probes had tried to enter his mind. Now, it was more like a feather being brushed against his brain.

  Had he imagined it?

  Or was the alien trying to reach him again, trying to make contact across the ten or twelve miles that separated them now?

  Storm waited tensely, and an endless moment passed, and he began to think it had only been an illusion, a phantom of his tired mind. But then … yes, there it was again! Unmistakably.

  It was as though a feather were being drawn over the exposed lobes of his brain, as though his skull had been sliced away to bare the ugly, pulsing thing beneath and leave it open for wandering thought-waves.

  There was a third probe, and it seemed more intense this time, but still feathery. His scalp began to itch fiercely. He wondered why the probes were different in texture now, and decided tentatively that it must be some function of the distance, that what he had felt as sliminess at close range felt different out here.

  Other than the texture, it was the same as before, the same hopeful, yearning gesture, the same feeling that something was reaching eagerly toward him.

  Go on , Storm thought. I’m listening!

  He forced himself to relax. He let his aching body go as limp as the constricting wires would allow, and closed his eyes, and allowed his face to sag into an idiotic droop. He tried to lower all barriers of tension that might be blocking the consummation of the contact.

  He waited.

  It was a long while before the alien tried again. Two, three, four minutes went by. Perhaps the creature was gathering strength for one mammoth effort, Storm decided. Or maybe the alien was—

  The thrust came.

  Relaxed and unwary, Storm was taken off guard, and the assault penetrated to the deepest recesses of his brain. It felt exactly as though a powerful man standing directly above him had grasped a spike with both hands and had driven it through the top of Storm’s skull.

  A blaze of nerve-searing agony blasted through Storm’s entire body. He let out a wild howl of pain, and his body twisted convulsively, half-rising from the ground, every joint straining as if jolted with electricity. Sweat bathed him, and he sank back, whimpering with pain, trembling, dazed and stunned by the onslaught.

  A silent voice said hesitantly, somewhere within him, I … I am sorry … to have hurt you .

  Storm blinked. “Where are you?” he asked, through the red haze of pain.

  Still in my chamber , came the silent reply. But now … now there is contact!

  Storm said, “You mean our minds—”

  Are joined. Superficially. Yes. I apologize for the pain. It was not easy to make contact with a mind so different from my own .

  Storm did not answer. The pain was ebbing, now. He could still feel the contact, but it was no longer like a spike thrust into his skull. More like an adhesive plaster fastened to his forehead, now. There was an awareness of something not him attached to him, but no pain. He had a sensation as of gentle fingers stroking his brain, soothing him, calming him, and he relaxed.

  Then he was aware of figures standing over him: Ellins, and one of his workmen. They had heard his howl of pain, evidently, and had come running over to see what was the matter.

  “You call us?” Ellins rasped.

  Storm shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t say anything,” he said huskily.

  “Funny. I could have sworn—”

  “You must be imagining things, Ellins.”

  The UMC man knelt and peered at him. “Hey, are you sick or something?”

  “Do I look sick?”

  “You’re drenched with sweat. Your face is pale. You look like a ghost, Storm. A sick ghost.”

  Storm managed a grin. “Not yet, Ellins. But don’t worry. I’ll haunt you when the time comes.”

  Ellins stood up, and kicked coldly at the pebbles in front of Storm. “You make up your mind yet, Storm?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Keep on thinking, then. Hey, you’re sure you aren’t sick? You look like hell, Storm.”

  “Suddenly you’re so concerned for my welfare, are you?” Storm chuckled. “Okay. You can get me an aspirin, if you’re worried about me. And a shot of Scotch, while you’re at it, pal.”

  Ellins spun on his heel and walked away without a word. Storm closed his eyes, tried to recover some of his strength. He wondered what he looked like just now. Probably pretty frayed, if even Ellins had noticed it. Making contact with an alien mind was apparently a severe physical strain, Storm thought. He felt as though he had just run a five-mile race.

  Quietly he said, “Are you still there?”

  Yes. I was waiting for them to go away .

  “Who are you?”

  I will tell you everything. I need your help .

  “That’s pretty funny,” Storm said. “My help. I can’t even help myself. How can I help you?”

  There is a way , came that calm, patient, voiceless voice. But not yet. It will take a while. I will explain, when the proper time comes .

  “The proper time better not be far off,” Storm murmured. “I don’t think they’re going to give me very much more time to decide.”

  We will find a way to delay them , was the telepathic answer. You are not yet strong enough to help me. The shock of first contact has weakened you. You will need time to recover your full strength .

  “Whatever you say,” Storm replied. There was something dreamlike and unreal about lying here bound in baling wire listening to a voice within his brain. If he had not seen the thing in the cave, if he did not know that Ellins had seen it too, he might have begun to suspect his own sanity.

  The alien was silent for a long while. Storm lay still, watching the workmen just beyond the dome.

  Things began to happen within Storm.

  They were odd things. First, the pain of his uncomfortable position lessened. His body seemed to be adjusting to the cramped, awkward posture, and his knees and elbows no longer protested, his spine no longer felt as though it were going to snap any moment.

  It happened subtly. Storm was not aware of any lessening of his pain. The pain simply dwindled and then it was gone, without gradations.

  Next, other symptoms of discomfort ebbed. He still had a lingering headache, but it vanished now, leaving only the most vestigial trace of the alien’s forcible joining of their minds. He felt weak and hungry, but the lassitude that had gripped him in the past hour began to depart. He could imagine th
e alien doing things as if by remote control, touching up the physical tone of his mind-partner the way a sculptor would use his sensitive hands to smooth the roughness out of a half-finished clay model.

  Storm felt new vigor, new vitality grow in him from one moment to the next.

  The process was still going on when the alien said, calm as always, May I tell you who I am, and how I came to be here on this little world?

  Chapter Eleven

  Storm assented, and a swirl of strange images came flooding into his mind. It was a chaos. However the alien saw his own story, he did not visualize it in a linear sequence. He did not imagine it as one event followed by another, like ducklings tagging along behind their mother.

  What came swarming into Storm’s dazzled brain was a jumble of events, a random, sequenceless mixture of happenings, a group of floating incidents that lacked any causal relationship with each other.

  “I … don’t understand.” Storm said.

  Wait. I am trying to find a means of telling you. I must organize the events in a way that you will comprehend .

  Storm closed his eyes. He wanted to roar, to bellow, to scream. It was not the alien’s fault, certainly. But so totally different was the alien’s way of looking at the time-sequence that Storm was driven panicky by the flood of images. He trembled, and shrank back into himself, and silently begged that he be spared the narration if it had to be as incoherent and as terrifyingly bewildering as this.

  I am so sorry , came the humble mental voice. I am making a greater effort. It will be but another moment, I promise you, and then all will be well .

  Storm fought the panic away. He wondered what sort of being this was, capable of grasping a story from beginning to end simultaneously, able to examine a dozen or a hundred or a thousand separate incidents in the same cloudburst of imagery.

  The flood of images subsided.

  The confusion began to diminish. Storm felt the alien assembling, reconstructing, arranging his tale.

  Now we will begin again , the creature in the cavern declared, and began to transmit his story a second time.