Part 5 (1/2)

”Don't call him Pun'kins, Neely!” somebody yelled. ”It ain't polite to misp.r.o.nounce a name. It's Mr. Tomatoes. I just saw. Bet he's got a million of 'em, out there on the farm!”

The whole crowd in the bar broke into coa.r.s.e shouts and laughs and comments. ”... We ain't good neighbors--neglecting our social duties.

Let's pay 'em a visit.... Pun'kins! What else you got besides tamadas?

Let's go on a picnic!... h.e.l.l with the Boss Man!... Yah-h-h--We need some diversion.... I'm not goin' on s.h.i.+ft.... Come on, everybody!

There's gonna be a fight--a moider!... h.e.l.l with the Boss Man....”

Like the flicker of flame flas.h.i.+ng through dry gunpowder, you could feel the excitement spread. Out of the bar. Out of the rec-dome. It would soon ignite the whole tense camp.

John Endlich's heart was in his mouth, as his mind pictured the part of all this that would affect him and his. A bunch of men gone wild, kicking over the traces, arcing around Vesta, sacking and destroying in sheer exuberance, like brats on Hallowe'en. They would stop at nothing.

And Rose and the kids....

This was it. What he'd been so scared of all along. It was at least partly his own fault. And there was no way to stop it now.

”I love tomatoes, Mr. Pun'kins,” Neely rumbled at Endlich's side, reaching for the drink that had been set before him. ”But first I'm gonna smear you all over the camp.... Take my time--do a good job....

Because y'didn't give me any tomatoes....”

Whereat, John Endlich took the only slender advantage at hand for him--surprise. With all the strength of his muscular body, backed up by dread and pent-up fury, he sent a gloved fist cras.h.i.+ng straight into Neely's open face-window. Even the pang in his well-protected knuckles was a satisfaction--for he knew that the damage to Neely's ugly features must be many times greater.

The blow, occurring under the conditions of Vesta's tiny gravity, had an entirely un-Earthly effect. Neely, eyes glazing, floated gently up and away. And Endlich, since he had at the last instant clutched Neely's arm, was drawn along with the miner in a graceful, arcing flight through the smoky air of the bar. Both armored bodies, lacking nothing in inertia, tore through the tough plastic window, and they bounced lightly on the pavement of the main section of the rec-dome.

Neely was as limp as a wet rag, sleeping peacefully, blood all over his crushed face. But that he was out of action signified no peace, when so many of his buddies were nearby, and beginning to seethe, like a swarm of hornets.

So there was an element of despair in Endlich's quick actions as he slammed Neely's face-window and his own shut, picked up his enemy, and used his jets to propel him in the long leap to the airlock of the dome.

He had no real plan. He just had the ragged and all but hopeless thought of using Neely as a hostage--as a weapon in the bitter and desperate attempt to defend his wife and children from the mob that would be following close behind him....

Tumbling end over end with his light but bulky burden, he sprawled at the threshold of the airlock, where the guard, posted there, had stepped hastily out of his way. Again, capricious luck, surprise, and swift action were on his side. He pressed the control-b.u.t.ton of the lock, and squirmed through its double valves before the startled guard could stop him.

Then he slammed his jets wide, and aimed for the horizon.

It was a wild journey--for, to fly straight in a frictionless vacuum, any missile must be very well balanced; and the inertia and the slight but unwieldy weight of Neely's bulk disturbed such balance in his own jet-equipped s.p.a.ce suit. The journey was made, then, not in a smooth arc, but in a series of erratic waverings. But what Endlich lacked in precise direction, he made up in sheer reckless, dread-driven speed.

From the very start of that wild flight, he heard voices in his helmet phones:

”d.a.m.n pun'kin-head greenhorn! Did you see how he hit Neely, Schmidt?

Yeah--by surprise.... Yeah--Kuzak. I saw. He hit without warning....

d.a.m.n yella yokel.... Who's comin' along to get him?...”

Sure--there was another side to it--other voices:

”Shucks--Neely had it coming to him. I hope the farmer really murders that big lunkhead.... You ain't kiddin', Muir. I was glad to see his face splatter like a rotten tamata....”

Okay--fine. It was good to know you had some sensible guys on your side.

But what good was it, when the camp as a whole was boiling over from its internal troubles? There were more than enough roughnecks to do a mighty messy job--fast.