CHAPTER VI
ASTRELL
The warehouse at III(3) Triangle Square was sealed up tighter than any tomb. The only windows were those in front, flanking the heavy turn-plate door that opened on the street side.
Narrow-eyed, Ross drew Veta back into a patch of shadow, while overhead Phobos raced Deimos across the sky, the two tiny moons like bright coins against the black backdrop of the Martian night.
For the third time, Veta said, "Stewart, it's impossible. There's simply no way to get in. And even if you found one, what good would it do? No one's there. The place is dark as the Coalsack."
"Maybe." Ross' jaw took on a stubborn set. "Then again, maybe not. But one thing's certain: I didn't lay myself open to charges of everything from grand theft to piracy in forcing that cruiser to set us down here just in order to give up now, without even checking."
Turning, he scanned the deserted square for a moment, then walked briskly across to the warehouse again, following its left wall until—a good hundred yards farther on—he reached the rear end.
Breathing hard, Veta came up beside him. "Stewart, where are you going?"
Not answering, Ross sidestepped the friendly sniffing of a six-legged Martian bak and strode to a box that protruded from the warehouse wall, opened it, and flicked his flamer. Light flared, illumining a neat row of dials.
"What—?" Veta began again.
"Power drain," Ross explained succinctly. "If equipment's running in there, we'll see it on these meters." A pause, while he checked dial after dial. Then sudden excitement sprang into his voice: "I was right, see? Something's going!"
Dubiously, Veta eyed the indicator. "Maybe it's an air-wash. Or a heater."
"Those take more power. This is a light or two; a show-screen, maybe." Ross snapped shut the cover of the flamer. "No, Veta. Somebody's in there. So now we'll smoke 'em out!"
Pivoting as he spoke, he stepped to the bak and picked it up, then paused briefly while he manipulated the ugly, six-legged creature's ventral plates.
The bak gave a sigh of vast pleasure and settled deeper into the haven of Ross' arms.
Veta stared. "Stewart Ross, have you lost your mind completely?"
"Probably." Ross chuckled. "Hand me that rock, will you?"
The girl's expression showed her reaction plainly. But, following Ross' gesture, she obeyed.
"Thanks." Ross hefted the boulder thoughtfully. "For the rest of it, all you have to do is stay here."
"Stay here—?"
"Till I get back."
Veta's head came up. Her lips firmed. "And why should I do that?"
"Because I'm asking you to." Ross came closer; slipped his free arm about her waist. "If you want me to, I can even put logic behind it: even though you probably wonder why, I—well, I wouldn't say I hate you. I'd like you to live long enough to give me a chance to prove it.
"On the other side of it, I'm not sure I can trust you. You held out on me about your brother, and his stealing the catalyst. Then, when I found his body, you hardly shed a tear. Maybe that was nervous exhaustion. Or relief that finally, for good, he was off starak. Or, maybe, you just hated me so much there wasn't any room left for tears.
"Anyhow, regardless of the angle, I want you here, not with me."
Veta's shoulders began to shake, harder and harder. Tears welled and overflowed her eyes; coursed down her face. She brought up a hand and bit at it, as if only thus she could hold back her fury!
"Rack you, Stewart Ross!" she choked. "Rack you! Rack you for a chitza—"
Again, the shaking. The bak under Ross' arm stuck out its thick, prickly tongue to catch the falling tears.
Ross said, "Now you won't feel so bad if I don't come back. And just to make sure you stay here and obey orders—"
He stepped back quickly. The hand that had been about Veta's waist knotted into a club-fist. For the second time in the brief hours that he'd known her, he brought up a short, hard blow that snapped the girl's head back.
Then, catching her before she could fall, he brushed her lips gently with his own and laid her gently in the shadows along the base of the next building.
That done, Ross straightened. Almost casually, he strolled to the front of the warehouse, tugging at the bak's ventral plates as he walked, so that the creature gave out a steady stream of contented sighs and hisses.
Ahead, Triangle Square spread out before Ross. With seeming unconcern, he glanced right and left.
Still no one in sight.
Shifting the rock Veta had picked up for him to his right hand, Ross paused long enough to work the bak into a comfortable position.
With cool deliberation, then, he stepped back and hurled the rock with full force at the nearest of the two warehouse windows.
A crash. The window shattered.
Ducking close, Ross kicked away the shards along the sill. A quick, wary step, and he was over it and inside the warehouse office ... fading back into the nearest corner.
Somewhere close at hand, a latch clicked. A black oblong opened in the wall across the room.
Ross went down on his haunches. Deftly, he slid the bak out away from him, along the floor.
Six-plate-rimmed feet made small, slithering sounds as the creature darted through the darkness.
Like lightning, over by the black oblong, a paragun whished faintly as the purple beam leaped from its muzzle.
Swift, silent, Ross crept along the wall in a flanking movement.
Simultaneously, off to one side, the bak ran wide in sudden panic.
Again, the paragun spoke.
But the marksman was shooting at his visualization of a man, not an underslung, six-legged, alley bak. As before, the shot went far high.
This time, though, Ross was closer. Coming up fast to full height, he leaped in, grappling for the weapon. The edge of his right hand came down on the other's gun-wrist with smashing force.
The blow tore a choked cry from his opponent's throat. The paragun clattered to the floor.
Before Ross could leap in, the other whirled and fled. Snatching up the paragun, Ross followed.
Down a broad corridor and past a brightly-lighted room they ran; then on into utter darkness. When a crash of jangling metal echoed ahead, Ross fired at it.
A body fell with a sodden thud. Cat-silent, paragun at the ready, Ross ran toward the sound.
He tripped and almost fell across his adversary in the darkness ... a dead adversary, now.
Not quite steadily, Ross flicked on his flamer ... stared down into the other's face.
It was the man who'd been at Zoltan Prenzz' place; the man who'd later tried to run him down as he headed for Naraki's.
A check of the man's pockets revealed nothing whatever of importance. Bleakly, Ross turned him over.
The move threw the flamer's light onto the stacked cases beside which the dead man lay.
Ross took one look. His hand jerked back by sheer reflex. Hastily, he snapped shut the flamer's lid.
His victim had died resting against row after row of fifty-gallon plastidrums of deadly, hair-trigger steron auxiliary flare-fuel, designed for use in atmospheres where nothing else would burn!
Unsteadily, Ross rose and made his way back to the area close to the lighted room.
A switch-box loomed in the dimness. Ross threw the whole bank.
Like magic, light came to the warehouse. Cases appeared, piled high on either side of long, echoing aisles. Overhead, two catwalks—accessible by ladders—ran the length of the building, one above the other.
For a moment Ross stood brooding. Then, quickly, he disconnected the lines that served the warehouse lights, leaving only the set that supplied the office area.
Moving into the lighted room, next, he looked about.
A case stood on the central table ... a neat black plastic cube perhaps six inches high.
Ross suddenly had trouble with his breathing. Not too steadily, he crossed to the table and opened the black cube.
A bracket in the top held a shiny aeroderm injector. Beyond that, the contents resembled a honeycomb—a honeycomb whose each cell was a glistening, hermetically-sealed plastic ampule.
Stiff-fingered, Ross closed and sealed the cube again and, gripping it tightly beneath his arm, hurried back to the office next to the street, the one through which he'd entered via the broken window.
In the darkness, something slithered. Ross jumped, then halted, grinning wryly. Going to the outer door, he unbolted and opened it.
Plates rattling, all six feet slithering, the bak scurried out into the night.
Warily, Ross once again surveyed the square outside.
It still seemed deserted. He started forward.
Only then, before he could so much as cross the threshold, something gouged into his back. A familiar, too-dulcet voice said, "No, Thigpen."
Ross stopped short. "Astrell—!"
"Of course." The woman laughed gaily. "You see, Thigpen, I get what I want. I have that kind of perseverance."
Ross said nothing.
"Back, now. Close the door and lock it," Astrell continued. And then: "Aren't you wondering how I got here, dearest? Just this once, haven't I surprised you?"
Ross shrugged.
But apparently no answer was needed or expected. Astrell went on talking anyhow:
"Let's go back where the lights are, Thigpen. I'm dreadfully tired of standing in the dark. And—oh, yes, I found that address on Sanford Hall's closet door too. I must have been right behind you. I'd arranged in advance to meet Sanford, you know—that's why he'd stolen the catalyst, so I'd give him money to buy all the starak he needed for the rest of his life. So I figured out the message, of course, since I'd been to Calor City often years ago, and knew all about Triangle Square. My cruiser put me down here even before you. In fact, I was watching when you broke in—"
Abruptly, Astrell stopped talking long enough to push Ross into the lighted office. She gestured to the black cube with one puffy hand. "Is that it? Is that the catalyst?"
Ross drew a quick breath. "No, it isn't."
"Don't lie to me! Of course it is!" Astrell's beady eyes grew bright above their pouches. "I'm going to have it right now! I'm going to be young again. You'll see!"
"Will I?" Ross set the cube down on the table. "Or will I just see you drop dead in your tracks?"
"Drop dead—?" The woman's eyes widened. Her wrinkles cut deeper. "You're trying to scare me, aren't you?—To frighten me into giving up the catalyst after all that I've gone through to get it!"
"You think so?" Ross asked tightly. "Let me tell you a few things about this stuff. At the end Tornelescu perfected it, yes. But no one knows whether this batch was made before or after that. At the very best, it's tricky. Not because of the catalyst itself, but because everybody wants fast action. So, Tornelescu made it fast: he tied it in with a metabolic speeder, so that the whole cell structure of your body would change in hours or minutes, instead of weeks or months or years. If it worked, you'd be young in a hurry.
"The only trouble was, if it didn't work, it killed you. That's how Tornelescu got on Security's 'wanted' list. He was too eager. He tested new batches on living human beings; he didn't care how many died while he was working out the proper balance."
Astrell's voice rose. "You lie! You lie!" Her pudgy hands were shaking also. Her face looked as if it were going to crack and fall apart.
"It's up to you," Ross shrugged. "If you think it's worth the gamble, go right ahead and take your chances."
Eyes haunted, Astrell stared at him. "You ... you really think it ... might kill me—?"
Wordless, Ross shrugged again.
Only then, sudden in the stillness, a new voice sang out.
Or, rather, in terms of other than this time and place, an old, familiar voice.
The ugly, snarling voice of Cheng the slaver.
"I'm coming in, you—Thigpen, or whatever your name is!" he shouted fiercely. "Don't try to stop me. I've got your girl in front of me: she'll take the first blast!"
Ross went rigid.
"You! You hear me?"
"Yes. I hear you."
"Stand back, then!"
Ross swept the room with one desperate glance.
It gave him no answers. It didn't even provide shelter. For now, looking up, he saw that the offices actually were part of the storage area, chopped up and cut off with eight-foot, unceilinged partitions.
Cheng again: "You better have that catalyst this time, you chitza! That's what I'm here for. If I don't get it, you won't live to tell it."
Now Astrell looked up, her face a study in unnatural pallor. "The catalyst—he means to take it!"
Ross didn't bother to answer.
Astrell cried, "I won't let him! He can't do it!"
Cheng: "Your woman dies if you try to shoot, Thigpen! Just remember that!"
Astrell: "I'll take it! That's it, I'll take it now! They say even one injection makes you young!"
She stumbled forward. Claw-like, her fingers tore at the black cube with the catalyst, the injector.
"Stop it, you old fool!" Ross clipped. He reached out to tear the black box from her.
Without warning, Astrell let go the case. It left Ross hanging momentarily off-balance.
Then, before he could recover, she struck out at him with the paragun she'd held on him earlier. The barrel hit him in the jaw, just below the ear.
Stunned, he lurched back.
Astrell ripped the cover from the black case. Snatching out the injector, she forced an ampule into it and with trembling fingers triggered the spray through the skin of her blue-veined arm.
As if it were a signal, Cheng appeared in the doorway, Veta Hall held in front of him as a shield.
Astrell laughed wildly. "Come ahead!" she cried, arms spread in a caricature of welcome. "You wanted the catalyst. Here it is. Take it. I don't care. I've had mine—enough to take care of me for years...."
Her voice trailed off. An expression of vast surprise spread across her face. Her pudgy hands sagged to her sides.
And then, incredibly, she was changing, changing. Before the others' very eyes, wrinkles began to fade, the slackened skin to firm and fill.
Her body, too—a youth, a slim litheness, came to replace the sagging rolls of flesh not even corsetry could successfully conceal. The auburn hair lost its dull, artificial glitter and, rippling, took on a glow, a natural sheen.
Ross sagged back against the table. The livid scar on Cheng's cheek twitched and quivered.
Astrell laughed aloud; and now, for the first time in the hearing of those present, the sound held warmth and vibrance ... the laugh of a woman, not a crone. Rising on tiptoe, she lifted her hands high above her head, stretching. Her face, her lips, her eyes, her whole body—they were suffused with a stunning, dazzling beauty.
"Do you wonder now that they married me?" she cried triumphantly, pirouetting. "Seven of them, the richest men in all the outer planets! And lovers—how many lovers did I take? Now I'll have more—more husbands, more lovers! Because I'm young again; I'm beautiful...."
Without warning, her voice trailed off. Her lovely face mirrored sudden shock.
Disregarding Cheng's leveled gun, Ross stepped in quickly; caught the woman's arm. "Astrell! What's wrong?"
She didn't answer. As swiftly as they had come, the gayness, the buoyancy, seemed to have gone out of her. Flat-footed, she stumbled towards the table.
Only then her knees hinged. She started to fall.
Ross levered her arm up, bracing her.
His hands seemed to slip, to slide away. The woman sprawled on the floor. Her breath came in hoarse, labored gasps.
Blankly, Ross looked from her to his hands.
Where his fingers had touched Astrell, slime now dripped from them ... the same hideous, stinking ooze that had marked the corpse of Zoltan Prenzz, the death of Sanford Hall....
Ross' eyes lifted to stare momentarily at Cheng and Veta in numb, dumb horror, then flicked back to Astrell once more.
Astrell, a beauty no longer. The features of her face sagged loose and shapeless. Her body seemed to dissolve into the floor.
And everywhere, the ooze, the ooze....
A final, sighing breath. Life left her.
Choking, Ross stumbled to a corner and tried to scrub the slime from his hands with a ragged jacket that hung there.
Behind him, still poised in the doorway with Veta, Cheng said grimly, "Don't try anything, Thigpen. You're worth money to me. I don't want to kill you."
"That's right, Ross. Oh, absolutely right!"
It was a voice out of nowhere, coolly mocking, familiar yet distorted. Ross, Cheng, Veta—they all turned, startled.
The voice again: "As a matter of fact, Ross, you're even more valuable to me than to Cheng. That's why I'm taking over."
Ross looked up sharply—really up, into the echoing, empty, catwalk-spanned reaches of the warehouse that stretched above the ceilingless partitions of the office rooms.
Adjudicator Pike Mawson's grav-seat hovered there, high above them. Smiling, sociable, he nodded to Ross.
But there was nothing pleasant or sociable about the paragun in his hand. It stayed steady and unwavering.
"As I said, my dear Ross," Mawson murmured, gesturing with the weapon, "I'm taking over."
He pressed a button in the flying chair's control-arm as he spoke.
The seat plummeted down into the room.