Synthetic Men Read online

  Larry let the tiny platinum band drop into his broad palm. His eyes showed the pain that twisted through him, but all he said was: "All right, Ann. But when you want the ring back, you'll have to ask for it."

  III

  Brand Haggard's sleek, black Martian did not try to pass them, as Carlyle had prophesied. For three weeks the ship was back there on the starboard quarter, matching them move for move. It was on Larry Wolfe's mind constantly while he stood on the bridge, doing little to ease the tension of his nerves.

  Strange, unpredictable currents suddenly developed about the ship, and Larry knew that they were only a day or so from the sargasso. Staring through the finder, he made out the diaphonous cloud he had been searching for so long—the sargasso in which they hoped to find millions of dollars in salvage prizes.

  Magnetic currents, as yet unidentified by scientists, drew space wreckage here from all over the solar system. Ruined space liners, flotsam and jetsam of fifty years of interplanetary traffic, here collected bit by bit. For the salvage crews who made lucky finds, there was wealth; for those who made the tiniest of errors in their dangerous work, there was death.

  Larry Wolfe's thoughts were on the long-missing Astral as he stood his watch that last night. The Astral, lost gold transport from Mars to Earth, had been the dream of salvage men for twenty-five years. Somewhere in the solar system it still drifted about. The chances were good that it had been sucked into one of the many sargasso fields; still better, that this newest field, largest of all, had caught it.

  In Thaddeus Carlyle's rooms, Ann had been hearing the same story that Larry was dreaming over even now. Carlyle's quiet, powerful words painted romantic highlights over it. The girl found her heart beating faster in anticipation of the days ahead.

  "But in all this trackless wilderness of—of ether," she frowned, "how can you hope to find anything at all? Let alone the Astral—"

  Carlyle smiled, glanced out the port at the vague gray shadow into which they were heading.

  "If we worked with just the one ship, we wouldn't find much," he admitted. "Actually, we use six. We drop the smaller salvage ships here and there as we enter the sargasso. The three men in each craft cruise about within a one-hundred-thousand-mile radius. After we've dropped all the ships, we circle back to the spot where we left the first one and wait for the flare signal from it. There's no radio transmission out here, you know. The scout ships are pretty much on their own. When they've located a prize, they tie up to it and go to work dismantling the craft. If they haven't located anything after the first scouting trip, we move them along to the front of the line. It's something like playing leap-frog."

  "I suppose your ships and Haggard's honor each other's finds?"

  "Supposed to," said Carlyle grimly. His dark eyes flashed to the slim, shark-like hull haunting their wake. His big, sturdy body seemed to tighten. "Haggard's got the reputation of being a pirate. I'm not looking for trouble, but if there is any—well, we can take care of ourselves. I know a few tricks more than Brand Haggard, I think."

  Looking at him, Ann knew a thrill of admiration. His attraction for her had been growing with every hour they spent together. "You seem so confident about it," she murmured.

  "After twenty years of this sort of work you get your lines pretty well in mind," Carlyle chuckled.

  "Twenty years!" Ann's brow arched. "But you don't seem to be over thirty—!"

  "I'm a little older than that," the laughing answer came. "I began as a galley-boy."

  Silence fell for a moment, while Ann tried to figure his age from what he had said. Then suddenly Thaddeus Carlyle was saying softly:

  "You aren't wearing Captain Wolfe's ring any more. I couldn't help noticing. Anything wrong between you two?"

  "We—we decided it was best, during the trip, to forget our engagement," the girl faltered, the color rising into her cheeks. She knew he saw through her evasive answer. His eyes, so piercing and yet gentle, seemed to know everything she thought.

  Abruptly, Carlyle's fingers slipped about her hand. "Ann, if you and Larry ever do break it off," he pleaded, "will you remember that I—could love you very much?"

  Ann was startled. Still more startled to feel the almost irresistible link between them, drawing them together. "I'll remember, Thad," she murmured.

  Carlyle slipped something from his pocket. "And just to make sure you don't forget," he said sternly, "you're going to wear this as a reminder. I found it in a wrecked ship, a long time ago. Like it?" He leaned forward to slip the thin silver chain about her neck.

  Ann's eyes widened as she accepted the necklace. She held the tiny crystal heart in her fingers as Carlyle snapped the tiny lock.

  "I've never seen anything like it!" she breathed. "So crudely cut, and yet every line so perfect. Thad, look! The color of it! There seems to be just a suggestion of pink in the very heart of it—"

  Thaddeus Carlyle let the gem fall into his palm, so that the crystal contacted his silver ring. Ann gasped. The suggestion of pink was now a glowing atom of scarlet, as though the heart held one drop of blood. It throbbed and pulsed with life of its own. The heart grew warm against Carlyle's palm—

  Suddenly the girl fell back against the chair.

  "I—I'm so tired, all of a sudden," she whispered. "Almost too tired—to breathe. Take me—to my cabin—Thad. I think I want—to lie down."

  Carlyle swore under his breath. "Fool!" he muttered. "I've been wearing you out with work, and excitement piled on that. You're going to bed, young lady. The ship's surgeon is going to have a look at you, too."

  "No, I'm all right," Ann murmured. "Just—tired."

  But Thaddeus Carlyle's strong arms were under her, now, and even as he carried her from the cabin she fell asleep. Looking down on her placid features, so like death, he felt a stab of remorse.

  Why did it have to be like this? he groaned. A life for a life—Carlyle knew within himself that he was willing to die right now. He'd seen enough of life and its disappointments. But always there was that strain of cowardice in his soul—fear of growing old, of dying. He'd courted death so long, hoping for a quick end on some battlefield, in some remote part of interstellar space. But never did it come. Friar Bacon had indeed cursed him with eternal life.

  Six hours later, just as his shift was ending, Larry Wolfe spotted the first loose cluster of drifted wreckage. This meant they had entered the actual salvage field. He rang for Carlyle and the ship owner responded immediately, ducking to enter the bridge.

  Larry's clipped voice masked the jealousy he felt toward Carlyle. "Flotsam off the starboard bow sir," he said mechanically.

  Through powerful glasses, the other examined the wreckage. He lowered the glasses hurriedly. Apparently it was merely the torn, gutted shell of a barge, but—

  "Rest of it may be near," he grunted. "We'll drop off Murphy, Stoller and Cass. Seen anything of Haggard lately? Anything to worry about, I mean?"

  "Yes, sir. He's drawn closer ... much too close considering we should be splitting apart now."

  Carlyle pivoted and shot a glance back at the darkly looming Martian. His brows drew into a solid bar across his angry eyes. "Half speed astern, Captain," he clipped.

  Larry glanced back at him. "You mean that?"

  "Exactly. Pull in beside the devil. I'm going to speak him."

  The Friar Bacon rolled and wallowed as the message was flashed to the engine room. Larry braced himself against the forward lurch of his body. The ship owner stood with legs spread wide, fists on hips, watching the Martian shoot ahead, seemingly, until it was nearly even with them. Its stern jets, firing pale columns of flame, did not slacken.

  "Send up a flare," ordered Carlyle. "I'm going to the air-lock. And by the way, tell Murphy to cut his ship loose right now."

  "Yes, sir." The bridge door clanged shut and Larry sprang to his round of duties, sending up a purple flare—"we wish to speak you" signal—relaying the message to Murphy to drop away in the scout ship with his two-man crew, s
winging the ship over until the Martian was so close they could see the faces at the ports.

  The purple answering flare went up, and Larry moved to maneuver the ship alongside, so that air-lock was to air-lock. The other pilot was an expert, handling his ship like a toy in the hands of a giant. The shock was almost imperceptible.

  Larry left the bridge just after he saw Murphy, Stoller, and Cass silently pull away, keeping the tiny scout in the umbra of the Friar Bacon, hidden from Brand Haggard's eyes.

  He found Carlyle waiting for him. Together they closed themselves into the tube. The outer end was now locked firmly against the glass door of the Martian's air-lock. Forms shifted eerily behind the double-thickness glass. At a tap on the glass, Carlyle swung his own window back. The other ship's master did the same.

  Then, suddenly, they were standing face to face, Haggard and Thaddeus Carlyle, Larry and the captain of the other craft.

  Carlyle was not one to spar for openings.

  "Let's have an understanding right now, Haggard," he snapped. "You've cut yourself in on this deal but you'll play it according to the rules. Make one misstep and it's war to the last man. Is that clear?"

  Haggard chuckled. "I think I get it," he said. "Well, it's okay by me, mister. I'll work this section and you work the other side of the field."

  "You will like hell," barked Carlyle. "I've got a ship in the field already. That, according to the Universal Salvage Code, gives me prior rights. Find yourself another playground."

  Larry watched the other ship-man's eyes dwindle to steely pin-points, but still he kept a grin on his wide mouth. Haggard was a powerfully built Swede, one of those laughing, blond-headed men who seem a throwback to the days when giants fought with seventy-pound broadswords and wore chain mail. His savagery belonged to another era, too. Men who had shipped with him never did so again, and thanked their stars they were still alive and more or less sane.

  "All right, Carlyle," he chuckled, at last. "Round one is yours. You keep your boys toeing the mark and I'll try to do the same." His eyes dropped to Larry's face. "Got your course mapped out?"

  Larry handed his captain the chart he had brought with him, and the man glanced at it with shrewd, faded blue eyes. He was a hard-case old-timer, leathery of skin, short coupled, and tough as oak. But he knew his business, and handed the sheet back directly.

  "Fair enough," he gruffed. "That gives us room enough to turn around in."

  "I guess we're agreed, then," Thaddeus Carlyle said curtly, extending a broad palm to Haggard. "Good luck."

  They shook hands, and once more the glass ports were rolled back in place, the locks opened, and the ships drew apart.

  "The damned liar," Carlyle said darkly, watching the Martian arch itself high above them and surge away. "We'll have trouble with him before two watches are down on the log."

  IV

  It was not until just before he himself quitted the mother ship that Larry Wolfe learned of Ann's illness. Climbing above his pride, he had gone to her cabin to say good-bye.

  Doctor Van Doren, ship's surgeon, met him at the door. "You must not excite her," he said, in a low tone. "Say good-bye if you like, but—"

  "Doctor!" Larry seized his arm. "I—I hadn't heard Ann was sick. What is it?"

  "I don't know. Just a complete physical collapse. She's too tired to eat, even. Ever since last night."

  Larry was pushing past him into the cabin. He went down on his knees beside the girl's bed and his hand closed on her cold fingers. "Ann!" he choked. "They didn't tell me...."

  Ann wouldn't meet his eyes. "I asked them not to. I'm all right, Larry. Just tired."

  A cold blade stabbed at Larry's heart. "Why wouldn't you let me know?" he asked.

  Ann's eyes seemed fixed on a rivet in the ceiling. "Because I didn't want to worry you. And—I didn't want to fight with you again."

  "As if I'd so much as raise my voice, with you sick," Larry groaned. Then his eyes fastened on a ruby-colored heart lying on the girl's breast. "What's that?" he asked, half in alarm. "I've never seen it before; it looks—like it's alive, Ann!"

  The girl's fingers toyed with it. "It was a gift," she murmured absently.

  "Carlyle!" Larry could not restrain the angry syllables. "I don't like it, Ann! It's like a serpent's eye, or something. It looks so alive—"

  Ann's eyes at last met his, and they were cold as space. "We won't argue about it," she said wearily.

  Larry got up, striving against the hot resentment searing his heart. "You know I'm leaving now?"

  "Yes. Good luck, Larry."

  "Thanks!" Larry snorted, and strode from the room.

  Larry's was the last scout to be dropped from the Friar Bacon. The mother ship was now piloted by Carlyle, who swung it back to the first salvage ship they had dropped.

  For hours it was a matter of cruising this way and that, searching the sky for traces of wreckage. Bits of flotsam were everywhere, but large fragments were scarce indeed. Larry's heart was leaden, but he buried himself in the work and succeeded in half-forgetting his worries.

  Lanky Jeff Adams was at the controls of the cramped little vessel when the first dark splinter was sighted in the void. Braced against the lurch and roll of the ship, Larry scrutinized the wrecked ship as they neared it. So unbelievable was the sight he saw that for an instant after he lowered the glasses it did not penetrate his reflexes. His fingers were tracing the vessel's name into the log when suddenly he stared at what he had written: "11:46 A. M. sighted derelict Astral. Good condition...."

  Larry Wolfe dropped the glasses and let out a yell. Jeff leaped as though he had been stung, his magnificent red beak of a nose growing redder with the excitement. Abe Miller, stocky, beetle-browed helper, stared at the officer.

  "What's amatter, Chief?" he jerked.

  Dumbly, Larry pointed. "That's—the Astral!" he gasped. "Two hundred million dollars—in gold—!"

  Abe and Jeff were stunned; then they crowded the port to stare at the ancient craft dead ahead. The scout had drawn near enough now that the name of the transport was plainly visible in letters running from stem half-way to stern. Weakly, Jeff let himself back into his seat and muttered:

  "Two—hundred—million ... in Martian gold! And we get ten percent for findin' 'er. Ten percent of two hundred million, divided three ways—"

  Larry laughed and poked playfully at his big nose. "Don't count your shekels before you hear them jingle," he counseled. "The Astral may have been gutted by pirates. Give her the gun, mister; we're finding out!"

  The little space-craft slewed and rocked to a stop beside the giant transport. Shock struck the three men dumb with their first glimpse close up. Faces crowded the ports, staring out at them. Larry fancied he saw movement among the watchers on the bridge. To all appearances the Astral might have been a vessel in mid-flight.

  They cruised slowly up the side, not ten feet from the ghostly faces that watched them with staring eyes. Foot by foot they proceeded. Rounding the front of the craft, they could see into the bridge. Two men were working over charts and a man in blue-and-gray uniform was at the controls. Another, a pencil over his ear, stood reading a gauge high on the wall.

  Then the meaning of it all came home to them.

  The port side of the ship was ripped open from stem to stern. Something—no doubt a jagged meteor fragment—had sliced and torn its way through the shell of the speeding transport. The occupants of the open side had exploded like deep-sea fish drawn to the surface. These in the space-tight, unharmed cabins opposite had been frozen instantly by the outrush of pent-up air. And there they had stood in the attitudes in which Death had found them, staring out as they forged through the meteor-swarm, hoping they would not be hit.

  In the silence they tied up to the derelict, their magnet-plates clinging like suction cups. Donning space suits and carrying kits of tools, they leaped through the rent into the dead ship.

  A vague twilight dwelt in the interior. Larry led the way to the bridge. The frozen l
ock was cut out by means of a torch. With set jaws he went inside.

  "Better load 'em out quick, boys. If the sunlight starts to thaw 'em there'll be a hell of a mess. Throw 'em clear of the ship. It's tough—but it's a sky-man's end, and we may all meet the same some day."

  While Abe and Jeff carried the corpses away, he found the log and traced back to the vessel's start. There he located the cargo list. Two hundred million was correct, as the refining company had stated when the ship was lost.

  Their next job was to cut into the hold. The sight of two hundred million dollars in gold bullion took their breath away. Jeff sat down and began laying the ponderous bars into three piles, muttering:

  "One for me, one for you, and one for Abe. One for—"

  Larry laughed, "Get to work, you half-baked lout. We've got to lug all these out to where they'll make quick loading. Friar Bacon should loom up in about four hours. I'll set the flares—"

  And then they all went stiff, hands reaching for energy-pistols. Through the ship's floor came the thud-thud-thud of walking men!

  Larry sprang into the hall. Three whirled at his advance. He snapped on his transmitter, the instrument operating through the metal floor like a telegraph.

  "Get the hell out of here!" he barked. "You're fifty thousand miles out of your territory. Is this how Haggard keeps a bargain?"

  The foremost pirate said not a word, but suddenly the pistol in his hand flared redly. Larry flung himself aside, blasted away with his own weapon. The wall of the corridor dissolved beneath his shoulder.

  A scream rang through his helmet, chopped off clean as the pirate's space suit was blown open. Jeff and Abe were yelling for Larry to get out of their way and give them a clear shot. Larry's answer was to duck into the hole blasted in the wall by the energy bolt.