Leah Barrow would die. Tar Norn had sworn she
would, unless he was set free. But freedom for
the Venusian Pirate meant death for many, and
it was Director Barrow's duty to hold him—even
though it would cost his daughter's life.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mart Wells shut off the alarm buzzer and jumped out of bed—much to hisregret. He cussed and then grinned sheepishly as he brought up with athud against the fortunately unbreakable glass of the window. A yearon Callisto, and he could still forget that he weighed only thirty-sixpounds and couldn't take a normal step without neutronium-weightedshoes.
Regaining his balance, he yawned and looked out over the rough Callistolandscape beyond Comprotown. Then he yawned again and reached for hisuniform.
A year before, Comprotown—and his job as rocketport dispatcher—hadbeen Romance with a capital R. Now, he thought gloomily, Romance withLeah with a capital L, and a fat lot of good that did him when LeahBarrow's father was Old Fish-face himself, Director of Comprotown.
True, Comprotown held fewer than a thousand colonists, but it was theonly inhabited spot on bleak Callisto, and its Director was practicalczar of a world. Yes, the Director could well afford to look down hislong nose at any uniform with fewer than six stars on its right sleeve.But Leah didn't feel that—
Suddenly, straightening up as he fastened his weighted boot, he lookedmore intently out of the window. Something that flashed caught his eyeout in the barren, warped hills. A gleam of metal where metal shouldn'thave been. And it looked like a small spaceship.
Mart hastily pulled on his other boot and ran down the stairs. Ared-headed mechanic from the rocketport was coming out of the buildingacross the way.
Mart called out, "Red! Something about a mile back in the hills lookslike a spaceship. Has one been reported down?"
"Huh?" The mechanic looked startled. "You sure? No, there hasn't been areport. Wait, I'll radio Central Communications."
He darted back into the building, and emerged a moment later. "Noreport. They're going to send out the autogiro to look at it. Say,Mart, there are only two small spaceships on Callisto. Could it be—"
Mart was already running toward the corner from which he could see thelanding field. He stopped so suddenly that the mechanic almost ran intohim, and said, "Whew! They're both there." Leah Barrow's trim littlespacecruiser was safe in port. So was the Police one-seater scout—butthat wasn't the one Mart had looked for first.
From near the Administration Building a two-place autogiro was rising,silhouetted for a moment between the horns of the reddish crescent ofbig Jupiter just above the horizon.
As he walked across the field toward headquarters, Mart surveyed thefamiliar scene. Three squat freighters were up on the racks, their uglyblack bottoms over the ash-filled blasting pits; four others were ondollies ready to be serviced.
All seven were ready for their regular weekly Callisto-Jupe hop,ready to pick up more ore. And, as usual, they'd go out today toclear the field for the sleeker, faster, long-haul ships that wouldarrive from Earth tomorrow for the smelted metal. Mart glanced at hiswrist-chronometer. Eight o'clock now; in an hour and a half, FreighterOne, right on schedule, would start testing its rocket tubes for theten o'clock hop. And an hour later, Freighter Two would start to warmup for the eleven o'clock blasting-off. And then the others, every houron the hour.
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