Part 2 (1/2)

He opened them.

He was staring up through dense foliage at a reddish glowing sky. The sky looked hot, and that gave him a sudden awareness that he was perspiring furiously. And, oddly, now that he knew about it, the heat almost smothered him. He shrank from the flamelike intensity, then slowly climbed to his feet.

It was as if he had given a signal. From his right, beyond a line of bushes, he heard the sounds of a large camp suddenly coming to life.

For the first time, Marenson noticed that he was dressed in a light mesh unit that incased him from head to foot. The material was transparent, and even covered his boots. The clothing shocked him. For it was the kind of hunting outfit used on primitive planets that swarmed with hostile life of every description.

Which planet, and why? He began to think now with more conviction that his predicament was Clugy's doing, and that this was the famous Mira world where the lymph beast lived.

He started off in the direction of the sounds.

The line of brush that had barred his view was, he discovered, about twenty feet thick, and the moment he was through it, he saw that it was not on the outskirts of the camp, but near the center. And now he noticed that the reddish sky was something of an illusion. It was part of a barrier that had been electronically raised around the camp. An energy screen. The red effect was merely the screen's method of reacting to the light of the particular sun that was s.h.i.+ning down upon it.

Marenson began to breathe easier. All around were men and machines--men by the hundreds. Even the most cunning group of Yevd wouldn't try to create so ma.s.sive an illusion. And, besides, their great skill in the use of light was personal to each individual, and not a ma.s.s phenomenon.

A clearing was being created out of a tangle of growth. There was so much movement it was hard to know what any individual was doing. Marenson's eye for such things was ten years out of practice, but in a few moments he had oriented himself. The plastic huts were going up to his left. Those at the right were merely waiting their turn to be moved into place. Clugy's office would be in the permanent part of the encampment.

Grimly, Marenson started towards the hut village. Twice ”digger” machines harrumphed past him, sowing their insect poison, and he had to step gingerly over the loose earth; in its early stages the poison was as unfriendly to human beings as to anything else. The upturned soil glittered with long, black, s.h.i.+ny worms writhing feebly, with the famous red Mira bugs that shocked their victims with electric currents, and with other things that he did not recognize. He reached the huts, walked on, and came presently to a sign which read: PRODUCTION SUPERINTENDENT.

Ira Clugy A youth of fifteen or sixteen lolled in an easy-chair behind the counter inside. He looked up with the lazy, insolent eyes of a clerk whose boss is absent. Then he turned his back.

Marenson went through the gate, and reached for the scruff of the kid's neck. There must have been a preliminary warning, for the neck twisted away, and like a cat the boy was on his feet. He came around with a snarl on his face.

Baffled and furious, Marenson retreated into words. ”Where's Clugy?”

”I'll have you broken for this!” the boy snapped. ”My father--”

Marenson cut him off. ”Look, Mr. Big Shot, I'm Marenson from Administration. I'm not the kind that's broken. I break. You'd better start talking, and fast. Is Clugy your father?”

The boy stood stiff, then nodded.

”Where is he?”

”Out in the jungle.”

”How long will he be gone?”

The boy hesitated. ”Probably be in for lunch--sir.”

”I see.” Marenson pondered the information. He was surprised that Clugy had chosen to absent himself, and so leave Ancil Marenson temporarily in full control of the camp. But from his own point of view that was all to the good. Even as he made his plans, his mind reached to another thought. He asked: ”When's the next s.h.i.+p due?”

”In twenty days.”

Marenson nodded. It seemed to him that he was beginning to understand. Clugy had known he was due to leave on his vacation, and so he had decided to inconvenience him. Instead of pleasure on Paradise Planet, he'd spend his vacation on primitive and dangerous Mira 92. Having no other method of countering his order, Clugy was repaying him with personal discomfort.

Marenson's lips tightened. Then he said: ”What's your name?”

”Peter.”

”Well, Peter,” said Marenson grimly, ”I've got some work for you to do. So let's get busy.”

For a while, then, it was a case of ”Where's that, Peter?” And, ”Peter, how about the stamp for this kind of doc.u.ment?” Altogether, in one hour he wrote out five orders. He a.s.signed himself a Model A hut. He authorized himself to make visiradio calls to Earth. He a.s.signed himself to Clugy's food unit. And he requisitioned two blasters, the use of a helicar and a pilot to operate it.

While Peter raced around delivering four of the orders to the proper departments, Marenson wrote out a news item for the editor of the camp newspaper. When that also was delivered, and Peter was back, Marenson felt better. What could be done on the scene was done. And since he'd have to remain for twenty days, the men in the camp might as well believe he was here on an inspection tour. The newspaper account would see to that.

Frowning, but partially satisfied, he started for the radio hut. His requisition was not questioned. He sat down and waited while the long and involved connection was put through.

Outside, men and machines were forcing a malignant stretch of jungle to be temporarily friendly to the hothouse needs of human flesh. Inside, surrounded by embanked instrument boards, Marenson pondered his next move. He had no evidence. His presence here against his will was not transparently the fault of Clugy. He had a lot of obscure back trails to investigate.

”Here's your connection,” said the radio man at last. ”Booth Three.”

”Thank you.”

Marenson talked first to his lawyer. ”I want a court order,” he said after he had described his situation, ”authorizing the camp magistrate to question Clugy by means of a lie detector, and authorizing complete amnesia afterwards. That's for my protection during the rest of the time I'll have to spend in the camp with him. Can do?”

”Can,” said the lawyer, ”by tomorrow.”

Next, Marenson connected with Jerred, head of his protective staff. The detective's face lighted as he saw who it was. ”Man,” he demanded, ”where have you been?”

His listened soberly to Marenson's account, then nodded. ”The outrage has one favorable aspect,” he said, ”it puts us into a better legal position. Perhaps now we can find out who the woman was that called Clugy's room at eleven o'clock the night before you were kidnapped. Apparently, his son answered, and must have communicated the message to him.

”Woman?” said Marenson.

Jerred shrugged. ”I don't know who it was. My agent didn't report to me till the following morning. He had no opportunity to listen in.”

Marenson nodded, and said: ”Try to see if there were any eyewitnesses to my kidnapping, then we'll get a court order and find out from Clugy and his son who the woman was.”

”You can count on us to do everything possible,” said the detective heartily.

”I expect results,” said Marenson, and broke the connection.

His next call was to his apartment. The visiplate did not brighten, and after the proper length of time, a recorder sighed at him: ”Mr. and Mrs. Marenson have gone to Paradise Planet until August 26th. Do you wish to leave a message?”

Marenson hung up, shaken, and went quietly out of the hut.

The fear that had come faded before his determination not to be alarmed. There must be a rational explanation for Janet's departure. He couldn't quite see how the Yevd could be involved.

He was annoyed that his mind had leaped instantly to that possibility.

A minute later, wearily, he unlocked the door of the hut. Inside, he removed his boots and sprawled on the bed. But he was too restless to relax. After less than five minutes, he got up with the intention of going to Clugy's office, and waiting there for the man to return. He had a lot of hard things to say to Ira Clugy.

Outside, he stopped short. Climbing up to his hut, he hadn't realized what a vantage point he had. The hill reared up a hundred feet above the jungle and the main part of the camp. It gave him an unsurpa.s.sed view of a green splendor, of the endless, s.h.i.+ning forest. Clugy had chosen his camp site well. Lacking the higher mountains hundreds of miles to the south, he had nevertheless found in the hilly jungle country a sizeable semimountain that sloped gradually up until it was about eight hundred feet above the main jungle. The hill where Marenson stood was the final peak of the long, jungle-robed slope.

Marenson saw the glint of rivers, the sparkling color of strange trees; and, as he looked, something of his old feeling for this universe of planets beyond Earth stirred within him. He glanced up at the famous and wonderful Mira sun, and the thrill that came ended only when he thought of his situation and his purpose. Grimly, he started down the hill.

Both Clugy and his son were in the office when Marenson entered it a few minutes later. The s.p.a.ceman stood up. He seemed curious rather than friendly. ”Peter was telling me about you being here,” he said. ”So you thought you'd come and look the territory over personally, eh?”

Marenson ignored the comment. Coldly, he made his accusation. He finished, ”You may think you're going to get away with this trick, but I a.s.sure you that you aren't.”

Clugy gazed at him in astonishment. ”What's all this nonsense?” the s.p.a.ceman demanded.