CHAPTER V

_Outlawed Flight_

Dr. Brende was dead. We knew it in the moment that followed our sudden

assault and capture. Elza knelt there sobbing. Then she stood up, her

tears checked; and on her face a look of pathetic determination to

repress her grief. Now that we had yielded, the Venus men, searching us

for our weapons, cast us loose. We bent over Dr. Brende, Georg and I.

Dead. No power in this universe could bring him back to us.

Georg pressed his lips tightly together. His face, red from the exertion

of his fight, went pale. But he showed no other emotion. And, as he

leaned toward me, he whispered:

"Got us, Jac! Say nothing. Don't put up any show of fight."

Elza now was standing against the wall, a hand before her eyes. I went

to her.

"Elza, dear----"

Her hand pressed mine.

Our captors stood curiously watching us. There seemed to be at least ten

of them--men as tall as myself, though not so tall as Georg. Swarthy,

gray-skinned fellows--one or two of them squat, ape-like with their

heavy shoulders and dangling arms. Men of the Venus Cold Country. They

were talking together in their queer, soft language. One of them I took

to be the leader. Argo was his name, I afterward learned. He was

somewhat taller than the rest, and slim. A man perhaps thirty. Paler of

skin than most of his companions--gray skin with a bronze cast. Dressed

like the others in fur. But his heavy jacket was open, disclosing a

ruffled white shirt, with a low black stock about his throat.

A shifty-eyed fellow, this Argo. Smooth-shaven, with a mouth

slack-lipped, and small black eyes. But his features were finely

chiseled; and with that bronze cast to his skin, I guessed that he was

from the Venus Central State. He seemed much perturbed that Dr. Brende

was dead. Occasionally he burst into English as he rebuked one of the

others for the killing.

No more than a moment had passed. Georg joined Elza and me. We stood

waiting. Georg whispered: "They killed Robins and his helpers. In

there----" He gestured. "I saw them lying in there. If only I had--"

Argo was standing before us. "This is a very pleasant surprise--" He

spoke the careful English of the educated foreigner. His tone was

ironical. "Very pleasant--"

Abruptly he turned away again. But in that instant, his eyes had roved

Elza in a way that turned me cold.

They led us away, down a padded hallway into the instrument room. It was

in full operation; our Inter-Allied news-tape was clicking; the low

voice of the announcer droned through the silence. I started toward the

tape, but Argo waved me away. He had volunteered us nothing, and again

Georg advised silence.

Argo had given his orders. Through a window I saw men carrying apparatus

from the house. A small metal frame of sun-mirrors, prisms and vacuum

tubes. Georg whispered: "Father's model."

The man with it passed beyond my sight. Others came along, carrying the

cylinders of books--Dr. Brende's notes--and a variety of other

paraphernalia. Carrying it back from the shore toward the headlands of

the Cape, where I realized now they had an aero secreted.

Argo was at a mirror; he had a head-piece on; he was talking into a

disc--talking in a private code. I could see the surface of the small

mirror. A room, with windows. Through one of the windows, by daylight,

palms and huge banana leaves were visible. A room seemingly in the

tropics of our own hemisphere.

Argo was triumphant--explaining, doubtless, that he had captured us.

Mingled with his voice, the Inter-Allied announcer was saying:

_"Greater-New York 10.32 Martian Helio, via Tokyohama: Little People

Proclamation----"_

A man standing near the tape switched off the droning voice. At the

receiving table, every few seconds came the buzz of the laboratory's

call. Wrangel Island again calling Robins; but no one paid any heed.

Argo finished at the mirror. He glanced over the tape, smiling

sardonically. Then, methodically, deliberately, he swept the instruments

to the floor, jerked out the connections, turned out the

current--wrecked it all with a few strokes. A moment later we were taken

away.

Outside, from back by the low reaches of the Cape, we saw an aero

rising. They had loaded it with Dr. Brende's effects, and in it half of

the men were departing. It rose vertically until we could see it only as

a speck in the blue of the morning sky--a speck vanishing to the north

over the Pole.

With four or five of the men--all those remaining--Argo took us three to

the Brende car. We did not pass Dr. Brende's body, lying there in the

outer room. Elza and Georg gazed that way involuntarily; but they said

nothing. The greatest grief is that which is hidden, and never once

afterward did either of them show it by more than an affectionate word

for that father whom they had loved so dearly.

Soon we were back in the Brende car in which we had landed no more than

an hour before. It was a standard Byctin model--evidently Argo and his

men knew how to operate it perfectly. We were herded into the pit, and

in a moment more were in the air.

Argo seemed now rather anxious to make friends with us. He was in a high

good humor. His eyes flashed at me sharply when I questioned him once or

twice; but he offered us no indignities. To Elza he spoke commandingly,

but with that deference to which every woman of birth and breeding is

entitled from a man.

We rose straight up and, at 18,000 feet, headed northward by a point or

two west. We would pass the Pole on our right--too far to sight it with

the naked eye, I realized; but I knew, too, that the Director there

would see the distant image of us on his finder, even though we refused

connection should he call us. And we had no right to be up here in the

18,000-foot lane. They'd order us down--shut off our power, if

necessary.

We could not escape observation on this daylight flight. Heading this

way, it would take us past the Pole and on southward, down the Western

Hemisphere over the Americas. We could not refuse connection for long.

We would be challenged, then brought down. Or, if Argo answered a call,

some Director would examine our pit with his finder--would see Elza,

Georg and me as prisoners. We could gesture surreptitiously to him....

My thoughts ran on. Argo's soft, ironic voice brought me out of them.

"We will answer the first call that comes," he said smilingly. "You

understand? We are the Inter-Allied News on Official Dispatch." He was

addressing me, his glance going to the insignia on my cap. "_You_ are of

the Inter-Allied?"

"Yes," I said.

"What's your name?"

I did not like his tone. "None of your--"

"Quiet, Jac," Georg warned.

"Jac Hallen," I amended.

"Yes. Division 8, Manhattan," he read from my cap. "Well, when the first

Director calls--from the Pole perhaps--you will tell him we are

Inter-Allied Officials. He will see us here--I do not believe, the way

we are sitting, that he will think anything is wrong. He will see us of

Venus. There are Venus men employed by the Inter-Allied. Is it not so?"

I had to admit that it was. He nodded. "You will fool the Directors, Jac

Hallen. You understand? You will get the reports on weather today down

the 67th Meridian West. And ask if we can have power to the Equator and

below." His eyes flashed. "And if you attempt any trickery--you will

die. You understand?"

I did, indeed. And I knew that his plans were well laid--that I would be

helpless to give us over without paying for it with my life--with the

lives of Elza and Georg as well.

From up here in the 18th lane, the Polar ocean lay a glittering white

and purple expanse beneath us. Then, again, a fog rolled out down there

like a blanket. We passed the Pole, a hundred miles or more to one side,

and headed Southward. No challenge. Under us, occasional local cars

swept by; but up here we were clear of traffic.

Elza prepared our lunch, in the little electric galley forward of the

observation pit. The Great London-East Indies Mail Flyer crossed us,

coming along this same level. It was headed toward the Pole from the

British Isles. Its pilot challenged us before it had come up over the

horizon. A crusty fellow. His face in the mirror glared at me as I

accepted connection. He ordered me down, Inter-Allied or no.

Argo was at my elbow. His pencil-ray dug into my ribs. Had I made a

false move it would have drilled me clean with its tiny burning light. I

told the pilot we would descend. It placated him; but he saw Argo's

face, mumbled something about damned foreigners--general orders probably

coming tomorrow to clean out Venia--damned well rid of the traitors.

Then he disconnected. Venia, Georg and I were sure, was where Argo was

now taking us. But the rest of his comments I did not clearly understand

until later.

We descended, and the flyer came up over the horizon and passed us

overhead. We were pointing southward now, had picked up the 67th West

Meridian and were following it down. The Hays station[8] challenged us;

but they were satisfied with my explanation. Argo had us up in speed

around four hundred miles per hour. We went down Davis Strait, over

Newfoundland, avoiding the congested cross-traffic of mid-afternoon in

the lowest lanes, and out over the main Atlantic. Night closed down upon

us. It was safer for Argo now. We flew without lights. Outlawed. Had

they caught us at it, we would have been brought down, captured by the

patrol and imprisoned. Yet Argo doubtless considered the chance of that

less dangerous than a reliance upon my ability to trick the succeeding

directors.

[Footnote 8: Hayes Peninsula, Northwest Greenland, near the present site

of Etah.]

With darkness we ascended again to the upper mail lanes. Over the main

Eastern Atlantic now, and out here this night, there was little local

traffic. The mail and passenger liners went by at intervals--the

spreading beams of their lurid headlights giving us warning enough so

that we could dive down and avoid being caught in their light. I prayed

that one of their lights might pick us up, but none did.

North of Bermuda, a division of the North Atlantic patrol circled over

us. The ocean was calm. Argo dropped us to the surface. We floated there

like a derelict--dark, silent, save for the lapping of the water against

our aluminite pontoons. The patrol's searching beams swept within a

hundred feet of us--missed us by a miracle. And as the patrol passed on,

we rose again to our course.

Argo gave us one of the small cabins to ourselves that night. He was

still deferential to Elza, but in his manner and in the glitter of those

little black eyes, there was irony, and an open, though unexpressed,

admiration for her beauty.

We slept little. Georg and I--one or the other of us--was awake all

night. We talked occasionally--not much, for speculation was of no

avail. We wondered what could be transpiring abroad through all these

hours. Hours of unprecedented turmoil on Earth, and on our neighboring

worlds. We wondered how the Central State of Venus might be faring with

the revolution. Would they ask aid of the Earth? This Tarrano--merely a

name to us as yet, but a name already full of dread. Where was he? Had

he been responsible for all this? Dr. Brende's secret was in his hands

now, we were sure. What would he do next?

About three o'clock in the morning--a fair, calm night--our power died

abruptly. We were in the Caribbean Sea not far above the Northern coast

of South America, at 15° North latitude, 67° West longitude. Our power

died. Elza was fast asleep, but the sudden quiet brought Georg and me to

alertness. We joined Argo in the pit. He was perturbed, and cursing. We

dropped, gliding down, for there was no need of picking a landing with

the emergency heliocopter batteries--glided down to the calm surface.

For a moment we lay there, rocking--a dark blob on the water. I heard a

sudden sharp swish. An under-surface freight vessel, plowing from

Venezuelan ports to the West Indian Islands, came suddenly to the

surface. Its headlight flashed on, but missed us. It sped past. I could

see the sleek black outline of its wet back, and the lines of foam as it

sheered the water. We lay rocking in its wake as it disappeared

northward.

Then, without warning, our power came on again. An inadvertent break

perhaps; or maybe some local or general orders. We did not know. Argo

was picking from the air occasional news, but he said nothing of it to

us; and he was sending out nothing, of course.

Dawn found us over the mountains. The Director at Caracas challenged us.

Argo kept me by his side constantly now. Dutifully we answered every

call. The local morning traffic was beginning to pick up; but we mingled

with it, at 8,000 feet and more, to clear the mountains comfortably.

Elza again cooked and, with Argo joining us, we had breakfast. Argo's

good nature continued, as we successfully approached the end of our

flight. But still he volunteered nothing to us. We asked him no

questions. Elza was grave-faced, solemn. But she did not bother Georg

and me with woman's fears. Bravely she kept her own counsel, anxious

only to be of help to us.

We passed over the Venezuelan Province, over the mountains and into

Amazonia, headwaters of the great river--still on the 67th Meridian

West. The jungles here were sparsely settled; there were, I knew, no

more than a dozen standard cities of a million population, or over, in

the whole region of Western Brazilana. As we advanced, I noticed an

unusual number of the armed government flyers above us. Many were

hovering, almost motionless, as though waiting for orders. But none of

them molested us.

Near the 10th parallel South latitude, we passed under a fleet of the

white official vessels, with a division of the Brazilana patrol joined

with them. A hundred vessels hovering up there in an east and west

line--a line a hundred miles long it must have been.

Hovering there, for what? We did not know; but Argo, leering up at them

insolently, may have guessed. They challenged us, but let us through.

"You are the last one in," this sub-director of the patrol told us. I

could see him in our mirror as his gaze examined our pit--a dapper,

jaunty fellow with the up-tilted mustache affected in Latina. "Last one

in--you Inter-Allied are a nuisance."

He was more particular than those directors we had passed before. My

badge and my verbal explanation were not enough. He made me show him the

Inter-Allied seal which I always carried, and I gave him the pass-code

of the current week.

"Last one in," he reiterated. "And you wouldn't get in now without those

refugees with you. Venia's closed after noon of today. Didn't you know

it?"

"No," I said.

"Well, it is. They shut off the power early this morning for all low

vibrations--yours and under. Brought 'em all down for a general traffic

inspection. Then changed their minds and threw it on again. But if

you're coming out north again, you've got to get out by noon. And you go

in at your own peril."

He assumed that Argo and his men were Venus refugees going with me into

Venia! I only vaguely understood what might be afoot, but I did not dare

question him. Argo's side glance at me was menacing. I agreed with this

director obediently and broke connection.

We seemed now to have passed within the patrol line. There were no more

official vessels to be seen. We clung low, and at 12° South, 60° 2O'

West, at 10:16 that morning we descended in Venia, capital of the

Central Latina Province, largest immigrant colony of the Western

Hemisphere.[9]

[Footnote 9: Now Matto Grosso State, Brazil.]

We landed on a stage of one of the upper crescent terraces. A crowd of

Venus people surrounded us. Even in the turmoil of our debarkation, I

wondered where the official landing director might be. None of the

governing officials were in sight. The place was in confusion. Crowds

were on the spider bridges; the terraces and the sloping steps were

jammed. Milling, excited people. The foreign police, pompous Venus men

in gaudy uniforms, were herding the people about.

But none of our Earth officials! Where were they, who should have been

in charge of all this confusion?

My heart sank. Something drastic, sinister, had occurred. We had no time

to guess what it might be. Argo drove us forward, with scant courtesy

now, down in a vertical car, through a tunnel on foot to what they

called here in Venia the Lower Plaza. We crossed it, and entered one of

their queerly flat buildings at the ground level; entered through an

archway, passed through several rooms and came at last into a room

whirring with instruments.

Argo said triumphantly, yet humbly: "Tarrano, Master--we are here."

A man at a table of helio-sending instruments turned and faced us. We

were in the presence of the dread Tarrano!