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Title: Squadron of the Dammed
Date of first publication: 1942
Author: David Wright O'Brien (1918-1944)
Date first posted: July 16, 2013
Date last updated: July 16, 2013
Faded Page eBook #20130728

This eBook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




                        Squadron of the Dammed

                        by DAVID WRIGHT O'BRIEN

    Is it a good idea to join the fightingest outfit in space, even to
    clear your brother's good name?


                           AMAZING STORIES

                         VOLUME 16, NUMBER 7

                             JULY, 1942





     Ricky Werts joined the Space Patrol to clear his brother of a
     murder charge--and found himself assigned to hell itself.


It was a dingy, dirty interspacial tramp freighter that carried the
quiet, expensively attired, serious expressioned young man to
Barkay--that nethermost outpost of the civilized interplanetary
belt--and deposited him, ornate luggage and all, on the filthy space
wharf that was Barkay's only welcome mat to visitors.

The serious, expensively tuniced young man, had then inquired of an
unkempt and somewhat besotted Martian wharf stevedore, the way to the
nearest and least louse infested hotel. The stevedore appraised the
young man's rich blue tunic, determined gray eyes, and costly trappings
and grinningly gave him the information.

At the hotel, a drab, _duralloy_, rusted structure of ancient origin,
the wrinkled little clerk at the _alumnoid_ desk, subjected the
gray-eyed young man to the same scrutiny, and ended with the same
knowing grin.

"Name?" said the wrinkled clerk in a tone of voice that indicated any
name would do.

The gray-eyed young traveler thought a moment, while the wrinkled
little clerk waited without impatience. It was generally like this. Most
of them intended to use names other than their own. Some of them had
them glibly prepared, and others--like this young fellow--found it hard
to remember them.

"Richard Werts," he said hesitantly.

"From?" the clerk inquired, not looking up from his ledger.

"Earth," the young man said. "Western continent." There was the ring of
truth to this. They generally didn't try to conceal the location from
which they had come.

"A day and a night?" the clerk asked.

The young man nodded. "Yes, that should be sufficient."

"It generally is," the clerk agreed.

The young man gave him a sharp glance, but said nothing. He picked up
his expensive luggage, took the room slip the clerk had handed him, and
turned away.

The young man took three strides then stopped abruptly, turning back to
the desk. The clerk raised his wrinkled brows.

"In the past four or five months," said the young man, "was there
another chap, about my height, a little heavier, and with red hair and
blue eyes, registered here?"

The clerk shrugged. "Four or five months is a long time."

The young man's straight mouth set impatiently. He dropped his luggage,
secured his wallet, and peeled off several Martian _Klekas_. He folded
them into a ball and hurled them to the top of the alumnoid desk. The
clerk picked up the ball casually, smoothed out the currency and put it
in his pocket.

"Yes," he said. "There was a young fellow, little older than you, maybe
three years older. Registered four months ago. Day and a night. Gave
the same last name as you did."

The young man looked up. "Same as I?"

The clerk nodded. "Werts," he said. "Funny, ain't it?"

The young man considered this unsmilingly. "What first name?" he asked.

The clerk bent down behind his battered desk. He came up with the musty
ledger in which he'd recently entered this young stranger. He thumbed
back through its greasy pages. Then his thumb was running down a column.
He looked up.

"Clark," he said. "Clark Werts."

The young man looked satisfied. "Thanks," he said. He turned away again,
picking up his luggage.

"Have to take the stairs," the clerk shouted after him. "The elevator
ain't worked in ten years."

The young man crossed the small, decrepit lobby and turned to the
staircase. He didn't look back ...

       *       *       *       *       *

In the gray bare surroundings of his room, the young man who had
registered as Richard Werts placed his expensive luggage in a corner and
sat down on the edge of an ancient duralloy bed. He removed his tunic
coat and carefully took from it a small, worn envelope.

He opened the envelope and removed a letter.

For what was probably the sixtieth time he had examined the message, he
began to read it again. It was short, terse, and penned in a strongly
masculine hand.

     "Dear Ricky:

     This is it, kid. This is the fare-the-well. Don't try to follow me.
     By now you'll probably know I was the guilty devil. Understand me,
     when you find I've taken the easy way out. Stick to your guns,
     'Commander,' and don't let this throw you.

     Best,

     Clark."

The young man folded the letter, eyes blurring, and put it back in the
envelope. Then he placed the envelope carefully back in his rich blue
tunic coat. He rose to his feet then, and began pacing back and forth
beside the bed.

"Clark didn't do it," he said. "I know he didn't do it." He was
muttering the words, half aloud, as if the sound of his own voice should
reassure him.

"My brother would never have done it," he muttered again. "He was
decent, too damned decent. Clark wasn't the sort. Even if he'd been
desperate--the way they tried to tell me he was--he'd never had been
that sort. Commander," he said more softly, "I'll never forget that
by-word of ours."

The young man was thinking, and the years were falling away. Five, ten
of them. He was eleven years old. Young Ricky Stevens, hanging around
the Spaceport, waiting for his brother, Clark, to come in from school.
Six years older than he, Clark had been all of seventeen then. That
seemed like a ripe old age to the kid who stood waiting for his older
brother. Young Ricky had always looked on Clark as sort of a god. And
when Clark, big-shouldered, red-headed, and grinning in that flashing
way of his, stepped out of the ship at Spaceport, young Ricky Stevens
almost broke his neck dashing across the space landing platform to his
side.

"Hello, Commander," Clark had grinned. "Glad you're here to meet me!"

That had been a special sort of title with them. When they'd been even
younger, and played around the vast family estate--the war games that
kids always played--Ricky had been Clark's army. An army of one kid,
commanded by his older brother. It was Clark who made his younger
brother call him Commander at first, and young Ricky had been happy to
do so. Neither of them had thought the family name, Stevens, was
military enough in its ring. So Clark had devised another--Werts.

Ricky had called his older brother Commander Werts from then on. And
when Clark had grown out of the war game stage, Ricky had still
affectionately called him Commander. It had been one of the proudest
days in young Ricky's life when Clark passed on the coveted title to
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Clark had been going to school, leaving for four years, and Ricky, a
lump in his throat, had watched his idol packing. The two of them, with
that understanding sensed only by brothers, had felt the significance of
the parting.

"I'll be back, kid," Clark had said a little huskily, patting young
Ricky on the arm. "And in the meantime it'll be up to you to keep things
running here."

Ricky had gulped and nodded, his eyes filmed by tears which he was much
too proud to shed.

"Tell you what, kid," Clark had said suddenly. "The army is yours. I
pass my command over to you. From now on you're Commander Werts."

Ricky's eyes shone through the film. "Gee, Clark," he'd gasped. "Gee!"
The accolade left him breathless.

And from that time on, Clark had called his brother by the title he'd
passed on. He'd used it less, as the years marched on, but whenever
there was cause for unspoken praise, Clark called him Commander Werts.
Ricky always understood.

Clark had gone on to college, then, and Ricky entered prep school a year
or so later. When Clark had finished college, and came back to the New
York estate of the family, Ricky was in his second year at another
university. They'd kept in touch constantly, and there were vacations
that gave Ricky a chance to see his brother for a few days.

Clark had set up an Interspacial Export firm of his own--in
characteristic fashion disdaining the family business and wanting to
make his own way in the world--and he offered Ricky a place in it when
the younger brother graduated from college. But as much as Ricky would
have wanted to be with his brother, he, too, showed characteristic
family independence and entered law on his own.

"I know how you feel about it, Commander," Clark had grinned. "As much
as I'd like to have you in my outfit, I must admit I'd have been a
little disappointed if you'd leaned on me to get a start."

Ricky had been glad of his decision, then, even if it meant he'd see
much less of Clark now that they were both out on their own. Clark's
export business took him on constant space tours, and Ricky was more or
less confined to New York where he had his law practice.

Clark's business had prospered. At least that was the way it had seemed.
And then there'd been that disastrous affair.

There was a murder. Clark's greatest competitor was brutally slain.
Everything pointed to Clark--who couldn't be found.

It was shown in court that the murdered man had been too tough a
competitor for Clark's export firm. It was also shown that Clark's firm
was on the brink of bankruptcy. There was a confusing inter-contract
deal between Clark's firm and that of the murdered competitor. It showed
a perfect motive for the ghastly crime. Clark's mysterious disappearance
was taken as conclusive proof of his guilt.

And then the letter from Clark had arrived at Ricky's law office. The
same letter which he had just reread for the sixtieth time. It had been
a genuine letter, Ricky was certain of that. But as for the so-called
"confession" contained in it, Ricky hadn't been able to believe as much.

But the authorities believed it. Ricky hadn't wanted to take the letter
to them, but a friend of Clark's--a chap named Paul Ebbing, who'd been
in the export game with him--had seen the note and convinced Ricky that
they should turn it over to the interplanetary police.

They found Clark not so long after that. Found, at least, the charred
body of a person they identified as Clark. A charred body in the wreck
of Clark's private sports space ship. Self destruction, they said in
their reports. Suicide, proving beyond a doubt that Clark had been
guilty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Clark's body had been identified by the clothes, or what was left of
them, and general markings. But Ricky hadn't found his class ring. And
this, plus several other suspicious details of the horrible incident,
had made him certain that the charred corpse found in the wreckage of
his brother's space ship was not Clark.

Ricky let the identification stand, with the realization that he could
reopen the case later when he proved his conclusions correct. He had
then set out to find Clark.

And now he had found him.

Here in the most forlorn and desolate outer reaches of space, at the
very border of the interplanetary badlands, Ricky had picked up the
first substantial clue leading to confirmation of his belief that Clark
was not dead.

For Clark had registered in this same hotel. And Clark had kept his true
given name and used--for obviously sentimental reasons--a last name that
had been a by-word with them when they were kids.

The same name that Ricky had chosen to use in registering--Werts.

Ricky stopped his pacing. He fished into the pocket of his discarded
tunic coat for a venusian cigarette. His hands trembled slightly as he
lit it.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Tomorrow he would draw even closer to Clark. Tomorrow he would register
with the Outer Space Patrol Legions.[1] Clark was already in their
ranks, Ricky was certain. People didn't come here to Barkay for the
scenic advantages. There were none of those on this god forsaken little
asteroid. People came here with one purpose--the same purpose that had
drawn Clark here, and now had brought Ricky. They came to bury their
past in the dangerous future of the Outer Space Patrol Legions, whose
central headquarters were, appropriately, located on this desolate
little sphere called Barkay....

[Footnote 1: _Outer Space Patrol Legions_ were formed by the conference
of Universe Peace in 2032 A.D. to keep and maintain the freedom of the
void for Universe commerce. Attending the conference were heads of the
departments of state from Mars, Earth, Jupiter, Venus, Mercury, Saturn,
Neptune, and Pluto. At that time the suspicious, crafty _Malyas_ from
the planets of Messier 31 refused to participate in the conference.
Since they were considered outlaw brigands their coöperation was never
expected or trusted. In reality the conference was instigated by the
Interplanetary Federation for the express purpose of bringing law and
order to the space frontier--a frontier that had often been violated by
the _Malyas_ from their bases on their planet in Messier 31.--ED.]




CHAPTER II

A Man in the Making


The Recruiting Officer of the Outer Space Patrol Legion faced Ricky the
following morning. He sat behind a small, clean, unpretentious desk in a
white, bare, severe office. He wore the deep blue tunic of the Legion.
On his chest were miniatures of many campaign medals, and on his left
arm were six gold seniority stripes. He was a short man, dark haired and
wide shouldered, and a rugged, granite like expression chisled on his
rocky features.

His eyes fixed Ricky's unsmilingly.

"We never accept a man who isn't absolutely aware of what he's getting
in for," the Recruiting Officer declared. His voice was deep and
somewhat harsh.

"I know that," Ricky answered.

The officer's eyes traveled over Ricky's expensive attire.

"There is no story book glory connected with the men of our patrols. Not
of the sort that legend leads people to believe, at any rate. The pay
amounts almost to nothing. Promotion can only be attained by the hard
way. It's long in coming, if you live to deserve it."

"I understand that also," Ricky said.

"Most of the men who enter this office," the officer went on, ignoring
Ricky's last remark, "are running away from something or someone in
their past. We don't delude ourselves that they're coming to us because
of any appeal service in our ranks might have. We are not interested in
what they are escaping from, nor what they might have been before they
joined us. Most of them are misfits, for any of a hundred reasons, from
society. We don't care about that, either. If they are cowards, we find
that out shortly enough and before their cowardice can cost us the lives
of any others in our ranks."

Ricky looked at the hard, gnarled hands of the officer as he drummed his
fingers on the desk while he spoke.

"Your enlistment in our ranks is for seven years," the officer went on.
"Quite frankly, four out of every ten men who join our ranks never live
to be mustered out of service at the end of that time. I'd like you to
consider this very carefully. Take a day to do it, if you like. It's
obvious from the words you use, from the clothes you wear, from your
very manner of standing here before my desk, that the life you've left
behind you is a lot softer than the life you wish to enter. Think that
part over very carefully. If you're running away from something back in
that life--and I repeat we don't care if you are--I just want you to
realize you're running away straight into the arms of a buzz saw when
you come to us. Do I make myself clear?"

Ricky nodded slowly. "I understand perfectly. I shan't need any
additional time to consider this. I've thought it out carefully long
ago."

       *       *       *       *       *

The officer considered Ricky's expression for a moment. Then he
shrugged, smiled, and reached for a sheaf of papers beside his elbow. He
placed them before Ricky.

"The enlistment is seven years. The penalty for desertion is, at all
times, death. Sign these," he instructed.

Ricky leafed casually through the papers, seeming to examine them
carefully yet swiftly. Then he bent over them and affixed his signature
to the bottom of each paper. When he straightened up he seemed to have
relaxed.

The officer pressed a microtube button on his desk and spoke into a
tiny box. "A recruit, Richard Werts. My office. Supplies."

He flicked off the button and turned back to Ricky.

"My luggage," Ricky began, indicating the expensive baggage behind him.
"Will I be permitted to--"

The officer anticipated his question, shook his head. "It will be
returned to you seven years from now--when you're mustered out. Don't
worry about it."

Ricky smiled for the first time. "I wasn't worrying. I was just
wondering."

At the corner of the little office a door opened. The officer stood up
behind his desk, clearing his throat. He held out a gnarled right hand.

"Goodbye, Legionaire Richard Werts," he said, "and good luck!"

Ricky took his hand, felt the hard, strong, reassuring grasp and was
grateful for it. He grinned once, and the officer returned the grin.
Then he turned on his heel, after executing a somewhat makeshift salute.
An orderly stood waiting for him, his expression noncommittal.

"Follow me, Legionaire," he said....

       *       *       *       *       *

If Ricky had felt that he would soon be beside his brother Clark, and
that the arrival of that long awaited moment would be but a matter of
days, he was doomed to disappointment. Exactly one month after he had
left the small recruiting office in Barkay, he was still on that god
forsaken little asteroid, undergoing the rigid training service at the
military barracks there.

It was hard going. The thick shouldered recruiting officer hadn't been
guilty of understatement when he'd warned Ricky of that. There was
drill, endless and fatiguing. There was instruction in military maneuver
that seemed endlessly wearisome.

The barracks were cold and prison like in their atmosphere. The other
recruits with whom Ricky trained, some fifty of them, were for the most
part cynical riff-raff from the interplanetary gutters. But they were
tough, and apparently fearless. Only a few of them were stupid. And in
the attitudes of all of them there was complete and almost happy
acceptance of their new lives. They seemed, all of them, like men glad
to have left the rest of the world behind them, happy in the awareness
that their past was buried completely for the next seven years.

The days were long, and even the constant attention to drill and detail,
drill and detail, didn't lessen their aching endlessness to Ricky. But
with the passing of each of these days, Ricky was confident in the
knowledge that he was getting harder, swifter, keener--tapering down
into the vicious human fighting machine that symbolized the Legionaire
of the Outer Space Patrol.

At the end of a month there was strength and steel and sinew in his very
bearing. His muscles were flat and hard, his eyes alive and restless. He
was beginning to wear the swashbuckling blue tunic of the Legionaire as
if it were a part of him, and he eagerly awaited the day that would send
him off to his first patrol station.

And finally there was that day when the Instructing Officer stood before
the fifty monthlings on the parade ground and read the order that
tingled every last man of them to his heels.

"Forty out of fifty of you," the Instructing Officer had announced,
"have been judged as ready for preliminary patrol training. The rest of
you will remain here at the barracks for two more weeks extensive
training in fundamentals. Those forty of you who have been judged fit
for further work will be sent to the Outer Space Patrol Legion Base at
Tromar.[2] The other ten, if they don't show considerable improvement
within the next two weeks, will receive unimportant detail assignments
at the home bases."

[Footnote 2: _Tromar_ is a frontier space port comparable to the outpost
of Cheyenne in the year 1840. Tromar, in the year 2038 A.D., was
subjected to constant raids and life there is as perilous as it was for
those brave Americans and Filipinos who fought with MacArthur of the
Philippines in the year of the Great War, 1942.--ED.]

Standing there at attention, Ricky felt the tingling surge of excitement
and suspense that comes only to a soldier at such moments. The
Instructing Officer began to read the names of the favored forty--

"Yjaka, Carroll, Masters, Revwa, Nougak, _Werts_, Sommers" and his voice
went on naming the other thirty-three, while Ricky stood there elatedly,
hearing only his own name ringing in his ears. He'd made it. He was
closer, now, to Clark!

When, finally, the Instructing Officer had dismissed the monthlings,
Ricky was joined by a tall, hard, sleek earth-man named Carroll. He had
bunked in the same dormitory as Ricky, and although they had spent
occasional leisure moments together, Ricky had always felt a
subconscious distrust of the chap.

"Congratulations, Werts," Carroll said, in his soft, too cultured voice.
"I see we'll both be heading toward inevitable glory now, eh?" There
was, as always, the slightest amused contempt in his voice. Barrack
rumor had it that Carroll was a jewel thief hiding from the
interplanetary police. Ricky neither believed nor doubted this, for he
had already taken the Legion attitude of accepting a man on present
value rather than past renown or notoriety.

       *       *       *       *       *

But there was something in Carroll's attitude that Ricky instinctively
resented; a camaraderie that intimated common bonds, not only of having
lived well and fully in their respective past lives, but equally
uncleanly.

Carroll didn't seem to notice the fact that Ricky didn't answer him,
however, for he continued to stride along beside him as they made their
way across the parade ground to the canteen.

"There's a rumor around that we're going to be trained damned fast,"
Carroll went on. "Seems there's been more than an average ratio of
trouble running along the outer space borders. The grapevine has it that
a small asteroid garrison of the Outer Space Patrol Legion was
completely wiped out a few days back. There was nothing but their
charred corpses left lying around when the checking Patrol arrived on
the scene."

Ricky felt a sudden chill. Perhaps Clark had been one of that
annihilated garrison!

He forced himself to reply casually. "Is that so? What post?"

Carroll shook his head. "Don't know. One of the bad spots. They think
the _Malyas_ did it, however. Little doubt of that angle."

Ricky shuddered mentally. The _Malyas_ were a vicious, weird tribe of
Outer Space brigands. Creatures from another universe, their periodic
raids and constant guerilla warfare along the interplanetary
borderlands, had been the greatest problem faced since the formation of
the Interplanetary Federation. Cruel, cunning, inhuman, the threat of
these creatures was a constant danger to the civilized sections of
space.

"Was the garrison comprised of new men or veterans?" Ricky asked.

Carroll shrugged. "Veterans, or so I understand."

Ricky sighed in relief. Clark was probably not among them. Carroll noted
this sudden change in expression, and his brown eyes narrowed. They
entered the canteen, and Carroll bought a bottle of Venusian wine.

"Share it, won't you, old boy?" Carroll invited, indicating a small
table.

Ricky shrugged ungraciously. "Very well."

They were seated, and Carroll filled the glasses, when he said casually,
"You're a funny duck, Werts. Can't seem to dope you out. You aren't like
the rest." His tone indicated that Ricky was like himself, and that the
comparison was meant as a compliment.

Ricky shrugged, sipping the cheap, bitter wine. He fished into his tunic
pocket and found a cigarette. They were a harsh Junovian brand, the best
he could afford on his meager pay allowances.

Carroll's tone was cloying, confidential. "Myself, for an example," he
said, dropping his voice, "I'm not like the rest of our comrades,
either. We're both used to better things. Neither of us were thugs. I,
well, I don't mind admitting, had a rather slick thing before I came
here." He laughed apologetically. "I was able to do quite nicely for
myself with it, until it suddenly became a matter of immediate urgency
that I remove my handsome hide to a quick hideout. This seemed to be my
best move."

Ricky took a deep draught on his cigarette and raised his eyebrows
noncommittally. He said nothing.

Carroll pushed his uniform cap back on his slick blonde hair and
refilled his glass. He was driving at something, that much was obvious.
And it was also certain that he didn't quite know how to go after what
he sought. Ricky wasn't being helpful. Suddenly Carroll leaned forward
and his tone became sickeningly friendly.

"What was your racket?" he asked.

Ricky's gray eyes clouded with frost.

Carroll had the grace to turn crimson. "I mean," he said swiftly, "I
wasn't trying to pry into your background, old boy."

"What were you doing, then?" Ricky asked frigidly.

"I, ah, I was just comparing notes, so to speak. I didn't think you'd be
touchy. We could save ourselves a lot of grief in this present set-up if
we got together. One for all, all for one, that sort of thing, you
know." Carroll said in an explanatory torrent.

"I see," Ricky said noncommittally. "And what's your background,
Carroll?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Carroll became suddenly more at ease. He grinned and bent forward once
more. "Ice," he said. "Valuable jewelry. Flick!" He waved one long
fingered, gracefully tapered hand to show the theft of an object from
thin air. He sat back and grinned.

"Society background, pinch the pearls stuff, eh?" asked Ricky.

Carroll nodded. "Right. It was a cinch. Society chap myself, you know.
Made it easy. Had lots of friends. No one suspected."

"Then why are you here?" Ricky asked in the same toneless voice.

Carroll frowned, then laughed. "I see what you mean. If no one was wise,
why am I here. Good question. They got wise, eventually, under rather
messy circumstances. There was a person murdered. Ghastly thing, ruined
my trade. I had to scoot."

"So you joined the Outer Space Patrol Legion until things died down and
you could come back in seven years or so, eh?" Ricky said.

Carroll smirked. "Seven years is a long time. Too long for one of my,
ah, impatient traits."

"The penalty for desertion is death," Ricky reminded him flatly.

"So is the penalty for murder," Carroll smiled.

"Then you have an angle," Ricky said. "I see."

Carroll smiled smugly. "You might say I have many angles, old man. All
of them right angles." He snickered at his play on words.

"And I take it that these angles need two men to properly develop them,
eh?" Ricky asked.

Carroll nodded. "That's it exactly," he admitted. "I knew from the
minute I set eyes on you that you were the man to take in on my plans.
You have brains, old boy, and background."

Ricky nodded sarcastically. "How flattering of you," he murmured.

The look Carroll gave him was suddenly sharp. "I'm not trying to be
flattering," he said, the purr leaving his voice and his eyes growing
hard. "I'm trying to let you in on some angles--smart angles--that can
make this forced concealment in these uniforms," he indicated his plain
blue tunic distastefully, "a little bit more pleasant and a little less
permanent. What do you say?"

Ricky met his cold stare evenly. He held out his empty glass, and
Carroll filled it.

"I say," Ricky declared with measured distaste, "that your wine is much
better than your ideas. And I can't say that I enjoyed the wine too
much!"




CHAPTER III

Carroll's Second Bid


The Outer Patrol Space Legion Base at Tromar was much larger than the
preliminary training quarters at the enlistment base on Barkay. And it
was two days later that Ricky, with the forty men from the primary
training garrison, arrived at the new location.

The first sight that met his eyes when he entered the huge walled
garrison was the broad, glistening sheen of silver metal that served as
the space landing platform for the fortress.

As Ricky followed the others from Barkay out the door of the space
transport ship and onto the ever extending platform of the landing
runway, his jaw fell open in amazement at the vast array of variously
designed orange and blue space fighting craft.

Their leader, one of the Officers from the base at Barkay, saw the open
mouthed astonishment on the faces of the men he led, and smilingly
explained, "These are the space birds of war. When you learn to fly 'em
and fight 'em, you'll be ready for patrol duty."

And on that note, the month's training at Tromar began. A month that
made the grueling sessions of training on Barkay seem like child's play
by comparison. But Ricky was hardened now, by his first month in the
Legion, and it was that hardness that enabled him to survive the rigors
of the month that followed.

They learned to handle the space fighters during the morning sessions.
They learned to put them through maneuvers in the afternoon grinds. They
learned to use the deadly crafts in mimic combat in practice night
patrols.

And there was more than that. Navigation, ray gunnery, fleet flying, the
intricacies of mass out-in-space boarding party raiding, and countless
other drills.

This month moved more swiftly for Ricky, however, for he had at last
caught up on a link or two in Clark's recent movements. There was a
little old Junovian who worked in the garrison canteen, for example,
who remembered Clark as having been at the Tromar base four months
before.

With this information on hand, Ricky went cautiously about gathering
additional information concerning his brother's whereabouts from others
at the garrison--men stationed permanently there--who were able to
recall Clark.

Officially, however, Ricky was able to gain no information. A solid wall
of secrecy surrounded the movements of Outer Space Patrol Legions and
the men in them. This was understandable, of course, for that very cloak
of mystery aided in concealing troop and military maneuvers from
possible enemy spies.

As the end of the final month's preparatory training drew to a close,
but twenty-five men remained of the original forty recruits who had come
from the base at Barkay.

Ten of the fifteen had been too slow in night maneuvers. They had died
for their navigational inaccuracies, paid for minor miscalculations with
their lives. Crack-ups in outer space, especially at the utterly
phenomenal speeds with which the space war ships hurtled through the
void, were inevitably fatal.

Two of the fifteen had killed one another in a bloody brawl during a
drunken argument. The other three had been shot for attempted desertion.
Their court martials had been but formalities.

And through it all Ricky had remained unscathed. Sheer nerve,
indomitable hardness of muscle, had saved his life twice. The Ricky of
four months before would not have lived, but this was a different person
who strode to the Garrison Commander's Office, three days before the
expiration of the month at Tromar, to receive his orders.

       *       *       *       *       *

An orderly in the outer office gave Ricky his sealed orders. Gave him
his orders in exactly the same manner as he did the other twenty-four
men who'd finished their preliminary training. A crisp salute, a folded
white envelope, a brief smile, and Ricky walked back past the line
formed along the corridor outside the offices.

"We get same base. Don't you hope? Don't you like?" asked Yenka, the
burly Martian recruit who'd joined in the same batch with Ricky, back at
Barkay. Ricky grinned and nodded. He liked the purple thatched Yenka.
The fellow had been a strong arm robber, according to the camp
grapevine. But his very frankness about his background, and lack of
hypocrisy, made him much more tolerable to Ricky than, say, Carroll.

Back in his quarters. Ricky opened his envelope. The white, teletyped
sheet, was terse, officially cold.

     OUTER SPACE PATROL
     LEGIONNAIRE RICHARD WERTS:

     PRIMARY--BARKAY

     ADDITIONAL PRIMARY--TROMAR

     ULTIMATE STATION TO WHICH YOU ARE TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY, HAS BEEN
     DESIGNATED AS CEPANI. ASSIGNMENT TO SPACE PATROL SERVICE AT THAT
     POST HAS BEEN ARRANGED.

     COMMANDER USLANKY.

Ricky felt his hands shaking as he held the white sheet tightly in his
fingers. His heart hammered with excited expectancy. This was what he
had been waiting for. Active assignment. The chance to find Clark!

He stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his blue uniform tunic and
lighted a cigarette. Immediate assignment. That would mean this very
night, no doubt.

Ricky sat down on the edge of his hard cot and wondered how far Cepani
was from Tromar, how far it was from Barkay.

Footsteps sounded on the duralloy floor. Ricky looked up and saw
Carroll. The tall, sleek, lithely muscled blonde jewel thief had avoided
Ricky for the most part, since their arrival at Tromar, and Ricky was
certain that he'd been nourishing hatred toward him ever since their
last afternoon in Barkay.

His expression now, as he approached Ricky, surprisingly contained no
malice. The big, wide shouldered blonde was even smiling ingratiatingly.

"Well, we're together again, I understand," Carroll said, by way of
greeting.

"I don't know what you understand," Ricky said, "or where you get your
information. I just opened my assignment envelope a few moments ago."

Carroll smiled. "I told you once a person could play things the right
way in this outfit. You get to have the right angles and you find out
things. I knew we'd both be assigned to Cepani yesterday. If you'd asked
me I could have told you as much."

"Look," Ricky said with cold politeness, "will you kindly get the hell
out of here?"

Carroll smirked. "As you like it, Werts. You're being a damned fool,
however. I can also tell you, right now, that Cepani is the outpost
garrison that was wiped out by _Malyas_ a little while back. Remember
that bit of grapevine information I got? Cepani, my friend, is going to
be a tough place to stay alive in. It's a nasty post. A man'll need a
lot of angles to keep his hide there. Think that over, old man, and any
time you're willing to get wise, let me know."

Carroll turned away, then, and strode jauntily down the row of barrack
cots and out the door. Ricky watched him leave, frowning meditatively.
There was something screwy about Carroll, something aside from the
naturally repulsive oiliness of the man, that was distastefully ominous,
menacing.

"How," Ricky wondered aloud, "does he know so damned much official
information in advance? And where does he have this rumor source of
his?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Ricky shook his head in bewilderment. It was too hard to understand.
Just as it was hard to understand why Carroll would have returned with
his "angles and ideas" today, after having been so coldly and
emphatically rebuffed by Ricky on the first occasion.

Ricky shook his head again. It was strange, too damned strange. He
shrugged. However, there was no time to think of that now. There was
gear to check, and supplies. He felt almost positive that his departure
for the active duty post was scheduled officially for tonight.

The burly, purple haired Martian, Yenka, came bursting into the barrack
quarters just as Ricky set about cleaning his equipment. His face was
beaming, his yellow teeth savage in a grin of glee.

"We get same base!" he chortled. "We get same base! Good, is not? Fine,
isn't?"

Ricky grinned, then the grin left his face and his eyes narrowed. Yenka,
too, was aware that he was assigned to the same base as Ricky. What in
the hell was this?

"Look," said Ricky quietly, "how do you know we're assigned together?"

Yenka slapped Ricky thumpingly on the back with his huge paw. "Carroll
is outside when I am come in. Carroll is tell me, after I am tell
Carroll what base I am being sending to. Is fine, no?"

The frown left Ricky's features. That explained Yenka's knowledge. He
rubbed a faint stubble of beard on his chin reflectively a moment, then
addressed Yenka abruptly.

"When did Carroll join the outfit?"

Yenka looked bewildered. "Carroll, when he come to Barkay?"

Ricky nodded. "It was about the same time you showed up in our ranks,
wasn't it?"

Yenka thought a moment. "Is so," he decided emphatically. "He is join
Legion at same day I am. We almost join same time."

"That's what I thought," Ricky muttered reflectively.

"Why is good to know?" Yenka demanded puzzledly.

Ricky grinned disarmingly. "No reason, Yenk. Just wondering, that's
all."

"That Carroll a bad one," Yenka warned dourly. "Don't make term with
that Carroll, Reeky."

Ricky nodded. "Never in a million light years, Yenk. Don't worry about
that."

Yenka grinned at this reassurance. "Is good. Worry Yenka to see
Carroll-snake slink around you, Reeky. You good fella. No place with
Carroll."

Ricky patted the Martian Legionaire's burly shoulder somewhat
affectionately. "Don't worry, Yenk. You'd better start getting your gear
in shape, else you'll get caught with a lot of last minute preparations.
I've a hunch we'll be saying goodbye to Tromar sometime tonight."

Yenka raised bushy purple eyebrows. "This night, you think, eh, Reeky?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Ricky nodded. Yenka made a whistling noise to indicate both surprise and
delight, and shuffled down the line of barrack cots to the far end of
the room where his own quarters were located.

Ricky set about the task of polishing his leather holsters, equipment
sacks, beltings, and space boots and gauntlets. As he worked he went
back over Carroll's actions from the first day he'd seen the jewel thief
at Barkay. Meditatively, as he worked, he endeavored to find some chink
in the armor of that Legionaire's actions that would explain some of the
mysterious knowledge he seemed to have access to.

By the time he'd set about polishing the glass turret on his space
helmet, Ricky had covered and recovered the ground he'd mapped on
Carroll's actions. There were plenty of suspicious movements, but not
one of them indicated anything.

Ricky gave it up, and sighingly forgot the matter.

As Ricky had expected, the call to leave for active duty came that
night. The eerie sound of the siren bugle shrilled forth the signal to
the twenty men concerned, and the barracks quarter in which the men had
been lying in open-eyed anticipation, suddenly came to life ...




CHAPTER IV

The _Malyas_ Attack


Ricky was the first man out on the parade ground. Yenka followed not so
far behind them. Trotting, dragging their compact full fighting
equipment with them, they trotted across the parade ground to the vast,
wide stretch of the space landing platform shimmering in the pale half
light of the silvered darkness.

There was a sergeant waiting for them, standing just off from a large,
fifty-rocketed space transport ship. The sergeant had a white sheet of
paper in his hand. The muffled warming-up vibrations of the rockets in
the large troop spaceship were throbbingly exciting to Ricky, who felt
his heart trying to keep tempo.

The others were arriving now, taking their places at attention beside
Ricky and Yenka. Carroll was among the last of the stragglers to arrive,
and Ricky wondered, fleetingly, if the lithe blonde giant hadn't known
of this embarkation. It seemed unlikely that he wouldn't have known in
advance, especially in view of the fact that he seemed to have private
sources of information constantly on tap.

Then Ricky shoved the problem from his mind. The sergeant was calling
the role, and the Legionaires were acounting themselves as on hand and
ready.

The sergeant, Marlow, a red necked, bull voiced man, then donned his own
glass turreted space helmet, drew on his space gauntlets, slid into the
zippered, electrically heated space suit he'd had ready, and the others
followed suit.

Sergeant Marlow held up three fingers of his right gauntlet. That
indicated that their receptor gauges should be set at third volume
intake, to permit complete and unhampered communication with one another
and their superior officer during the journey through space.

The throbbing of the rockets on the big troop transport had grown in
volume to an almost deafening staccato.

The side hatchways on the ship were rolled back, a gangplank let down.
Turning in formation drill, the Legionaires picked up their gear,
shifted their electra-rifles to their left shoulders in unison, and
marched up into the side of the ship.

Ricky was the first inside the troop carrier, and he made his way to the
front of the big spaceship, taking his place on the right of the aisle
in a small, comfortable seat that was fashioned so as to provide the
utmost space for fighting equipment while at the same time affording
bodily comfort as well as could be expected.

Yenka took the seat across the aisle from Ricky. Behind them, in
straight two-across formation, the others took their places. Then Ricky
heard the doors at the side of the ship rolling back into place. A
moment later Sergeant Marlow marched down the aisle, inspecting the
proper placement of equipment on the part of his charges.

Up ahead of him, Ricky knew, behind the heavy duralloy doors that
blocked their compartments off from the troops they carried, were the
pilots of the space craft.

Sergeant Marlow's red face beneath the glass turret of his space helmet
was grim and unsmiling. Around the training grounds of Tromar he had
been a bluff, jovial, almost raucously humorous chap. His attitude now
was in complete contrast.

Marlow looked like what he was. A tough Sergeant in a tough outfit in a
tough situation which he was determined to carry through with
professional hardness.

And then Marlow was moving to the rear of the spaceship troop transport,
and from the sudden, almost imperceptible lessening in the rocket
vibrations of the craft, Ricky was certain that the pilots were easing
rocket throttles toward the first open blasts that would send them
screaming spaceward.

He was hurled back against his seat in the next instant, and from the
porthole on his right, Ricky caught only the flickering swirl of the
night's starstream shooting past them.

They were out in space moments later. Out in space and headed for
Cepani.

       *       *       *       *       *

The minutes that followed stretched themselves into interminable hours,
and finally, on instructions from Sergeant Marlow, the contingent of
space Legionaires dug into haversacks for their concentrated rations.
After this there was a brief exercise period, a period in which the men
moved up and down the confinements of the spaceship in squads of four
for ten minutes at a time.

Later Ricky slept, and when he woke again he was startled to realize
that a day had passed and that they were into another night and another
meal on concentrated pill rations. There was more exercise after this,
and more sluggishly plodding hours of silence as the sleek craft roared
through the space lanes.

Ricky must have dozed off a little later, for suddenly he was blinking
his eyes and looking startledly about as the voice of Sergeant Marlow
rang through the receptor of his space helmet.

"Discard all but fighting gear!" the voice thundered. "Prepare to
repulse attack. _Malyas_ are closing in on the transport!"

Ricky was on his feet then, pushing haversack equipment to the side of
the seat, reaching for his electra-rifle. His heart began to pound
furiously in excitement. On every side of him other Legionaires were
discarding their unnecessary equipment and lining themselves in
formation along the aisle of the transport.

Ricky took a quick glance out the transport porthole. All he saw was the
blackness of space around him. Then he was out in the center aisle of
the ship, lining up with his comrades. Yenka was directly on his right,
the pug-faced Martian's features grinning delightedly behind the turret
of his space helmet.

Sergeant Marlow moved swiftly up the line to the front of the ship. He
stepped through the heavy bulkhead that led to the pilot's compartments.
A moment later he reappeared.

Ricky noticed that he had strapped two atomic pistols to his sides.

"All right," Marlow barked. "There's exactly three _Malya_ ships heading
toward us. They haven't opened fire yet. They haven't the range. I've a
hunch they'll try to board us. We'll need two gun crews to man the
atomic cannon on our top turret." His eyes swept along the line of
Legionaires.

"Carroll," Marlow snapped, and from the far end of the line the tall
blonde stepped forward.

"Yenka," Marlow barked in the next breath. Almost chortling with glee,
the Martian stepped forward.

Marlow hesitated an instant. "Werts!" he snapped. Ricky stepped forward.

"You three will man the fore gun turret," he said. "Leave your
electra-rifles in the cabin, take your atomic pistols along."

Then Ricky was dumping his rifle to the top of his equipment, making
fast the notches in his holster belt as he strapped an atomic pistol to
his waist. Even though he'd removed his space gauntlets, his fingers all
felt like thumbs. His mouth was dry.

"All right," Marlow ordered. Then he barked three more names, instructed
those Legionaires to man the rear gun turrets, and declared he would
arrange the porthole defense with electra-rifles in another moment.

Ricky, Yenka, and Carroll passed Marlow on the way to the forward hatch
that led to the upper gun turret.

"Don't forget what we've burned into your thick skulls," he snapped.
"Good luck."

       *       *       *       *       *

Carroll was first up the hatchway ladder, Ricky followed behind him,
and then Yenka. Then they were on the smooth "bubble" of glassicade atop
the space transport, and Yenka was tugging the hatch cover back in
place.

Ricky saw that Carroll had already dashed to the firing position behind
a round snouted atomic cannon, and he paused a minute, to look up
through the sheen of glassicade around them.

And then he saw the _Malyas_.

There were, as Marlow had said, three of their ships following the troop
transport through space at a distance of several miles. They were
incredibly slim, sleek ships, and Ricky recalled that they were reputed
to have tremendous powers of speed, but very little maneuverability.

He settled himself behind the second atomic cannon.

Yenka had left the hatch, now, and took the third post.

Ricky dragged on his space gauntlets and seized the trigger bars of the
atomic cannon. He swung the gun around in a swift circular motion,
making certain that it wasn't jammed. Carroll and Yenka were making the
same tests on their guns.

Carroll caught Ricky's eye and grinned, waving his gauntleted hand in a
nonchalant gesture. As much as he despised the man, Ricky had to admire
his coolness and eclat under danger.

There were covers, partitions, over each of the three atomic gun
positions. Ricky pressed the button which rolled back the glassicade
cover around and above his cannon. It worked smoothly. Ricky turned the
current higher on his electrically heated space suit, as the cold swept
in through the sudden vent, and signalled Carroll and Yenka to do the
same. He saw their hands turning the switches on their chest panels and
nodded in satisfaction.

Ricky pointed to his opened cover partition, indicating that he thought
it wise that the others swing theirs free for action now rather than
later.

The _Malya_ ships were creeping up closer now, and Ricky was certain
that the pilots of the transport, knowing they couldn't outrace the
enemy, were slowing somewhat to permit a better defense of their ship.

Ricky's gun faced the tail of the ship, Yenka's gun the nose, and
Carroll's the center. And then the slim, sleek craft of the _Malyas_
were driving upward for altitude, getting ready for dive attacks.

Ricky's gauntleted finger released the stop catch on the side of his
trigger bars. His head was craned back, and he peered upward at the
_Malya_ ships climbing high behind the tail of the transport.

Any instant now, and they would start diving--

They dove!

Ricky's fingers pulled tight on the trigger bars and his atomic cannon
belched orange flame upward into space. He fired too soon with his first
blasts, missing the first diving _Malya_ ship. The _Malya_ craft took
advantage of this, and red fire coughed from its nose as it hurled death
and destruction toward the transport.

Ricky's cannon work, although it hadn't accounted for a _Malya_ ship,
had diverted its fire, and the red spurts of flame went wide of the
transport as the first diving ship continued onward under the quarry.

Ricky held his fire on the second ship until it was less than a few
hundred yards away. He didn't miss this time, and the orange blasts that
coughed from his cannon caught the _Malya_ craft squarely on the nose,
setting it immediately aflame!

With fierce satisfaction, Ricky watched the _Malya_ raider roll over,
down, then away. By now it was nothing more than a blazing ball of
flame dropping wildly through space. First blood.

The third _Malya_ ship cut its dive short, rather than risk the same
fate, and zoomed up quickly out of range, climbing for safety. Ricky
relaxed and wished to God that he could get inside his space helmet to
wipe the streaming perspiration from his face. He turned and grinned at
Yenka who was waving clasped hands above his head. Carroll was smiling
also, and nodding his compliments.

Ricky waited there while moments ticked sluggishly onward. But the
_Malya_ spacecraft which had climbed upward to safety didn't appear
again. Neither did the first ship that had dived on them. Ricky's spine
began to ache.

Finally, when it seemed as if an hour must have passed, Ricky saw the
hatch cover to the cabin below slide back and Marlow's turreted head
thrust through.

He signalled them to leave their posts and his head disappeared back
into the cabin. Ricky pressed the button that rolled the glassicade
partition back over his gun position. The others did likewise. He set
the stop catch on the trigger bars of his atomic cannon and climbed
wearily to his feet.

The attack was over. The _Malyas_ had been beaten off.

Ricky was last down the hatch ladder into the cabin. Yenka was jabbering
excitedly to Marlow and pointing at Ricky. Marlow met Ricky's eyes.

"Nice work," his voice came to Ricky. "They got Fleck, one of our men in
the underside turret." His face was tired.

Ricky felt suddenly utterly weary. The triumph drained from him leaving
only aching fatigue. Fleck had been a good man. A Legionaire hates to
see a good man go from his outfit. Ricky realized that had he been in
the under turret rather than Fleck, it might be Fleck who had the
honor, and Ricky who was dead. That was the Outer Space Legion. That was
war in space ...




CHAPTER V

Death Strikes the Patrol


Cepani was as desolate an asteroid garrison as Ricky had ever laid eyes
on. And when the large transport ship slid onto the space landing
platform at Cepani hours later, Ricky looked out the porthole with a
mixture of wonder and disgust on his features.

The fortress on Cepani was apparently all that the asteroid contained.
It was a military outpost, nothing more, nothing less.

Yenka, standing at Ricky's shoulder, expressed the emotions of all the
newly arriving men.

"It bad," he declared sincerely. "A place for a Legionaire to go crazy."

Sergeant Marlow, moving up and down the aisle to make certain that his
charges would be ready to disembark with a flourish, looked none too
happy about his new assignment. Neither did the small knot of
Legionaires who waited curiously out on the landing platform.

But Ricky's excitement returned when he saw those men waiting for them,
for this was the garrison at which Clark might be stationed. This might
be the end of his search!

Marlow lined them up before they were ready to step out down the
gangplank to their new quarters.

"Step out there like Legionaires," he barked. "Move like you've a brass
band tooting at your heels. You've had your first taste of action
already, men; now act like it!"

And then he led them down the gangplank and onto the platform.

Ricky's heart was pounding furiously as he peered eagerly at the faces
of the men who apathetically watched the disembarkment. There were
perhaps ten of them. Three were officers, Ricky knew instantly from the
gold braid on their blue tunics.

None of the other seven was Clark.

Ricky felt a swift surge of bitter disappointment. But, he realized, an
instant later, this certainly wasn't the Cepani Legion garrison in its
entirety. Clark might be anywhere around the place. He might even be out
on patrol duty. There was still certainly hope of finding him here.

They were on the landing platform, lined before the space transport
ship, and Sergeant Marlow was stepping forward to greet the three
officers of the Cepani garrison.

Even the Officers of the garrison looked weary and somewhat disgusted,
Ricky realized as he saw their expressions. But all of them were clean
shaven and turned out with military shine. They hadn't let their
weariness or disgust send them to seed.

Then Ricky saw that all their space boots, those of the officers and
seven men alike, were covered with a thick, chalky, gray substance. He
frowned at this.

Marlow came back from the officers, then. "You men are already assigned
to quarters. Break formation and hustle over to the barracks. Your new
Commanding Officers will look you over later. If you hurry with your
cleanups we'll be in time to join mess."

The weary contingent of newly arrived Legionaires broke ranks
immediately, some removing their space helmets and gauntlets, others
leaving them on as they trotted toward the end of the landing platform
toward the barracks at the other side of the fortress.

Ricky walked wearily behind them. He had removed his space helmet and
for the first time had a chance to thoroughly scratch his neck and wipe
the perspiration and grime from his features. He was one of the last to
the edge of the landing platform, and when he arrived there and looked
down the ladder that led to the parade ground his jaws fell open in
thick dismay.

The newly arrived Legionaires who were already off the platform and down
on the parade ground were stamping around with hoarse curses of bitter
disgust. Stamping around in chalky, gray dust that lay at least four
inches thick over the entire terrain!

Yenka came up behind Ricky and looked down. He too stared with disgusted
disappointment.

"It's awful!" he cursed. "Damn dust! Damn place! Choke damn men to
death!"

Another voice sounded behind them, and they turned to see Carroll
staring cynically down at the parade ground.

"This, my friends," he said sarcastically, "is the lovely rich soil of
that most charming of asteroids, Cepani!"

Ricky merely stared at him wordlessly....

       *       *       *       *       *

Ricky and the others of his contingent had washed and changed to crimson
fatigue tunics some thirty minutes later. And in the small mess hall of
the Cepani garrison they had their first meeting with their new
comrades, some twenty of them.

It was learned in the course of the meal that two patrols of five men
each were out on duty and would be in shortly after mess. On the right
of Ricky at the long mess table was Carroll, who seemed more talkative
than ever before.

"The food is at least passable," Carroll declared. "And if we don't have
to slough around in that damned dust too much none of us will choke to
death. I'd much rather die with my boots on than by dust strangulation."

Ricky still felt no closer to Carroll, and still considered him worthy
of suspicion. But the fact that they had been together through a brief
conflict with the _Malyas_ seemed to give him a little more reason to
ignore the ex-jewel thief less.

"I thought you were averse to dying with your boots on," Ricky observed.

Carroll laughed. "So I am, old boy. So I am. And I still don't intend to
do so."

Ricky ate on in silence.

"You're pretty anxious about something or other, aren't you?" Carroll
observed a moment later. "I've noticed that your eyes can't stay in one
place longer than a second."

Ricky flushed. "You're too damned observant to suit me."

Carroll shrugged, went on eating, then paused once more. "You expect, or
hope, to find someone here, don't you?" he asked.

Ricky looked at him levelly. "Perhaps," he said.

"Friend?"

"You'd like to know every last bit you can ferret, wouldn't you?" Ricky
blazed. "Why in the hell don't you concentrate on your food, Carroll?"

Carroll shrugged his wide shoulders again. "Sorry if I was prying, old
boy. I just thought I could be of some help. There's a chap named Werts
at this garrison--a Werts other than yourself, I should say. That your
man?"

Ricky almost choked on the liquid he was drinking. He was flooded with
mingled emotions, rage at Carroll for having learned so much, and wild
relief to realize that he had at last found Clark. For it must have been
Clark!

He held back his fury at Carroll. "He's not in this mess hall," he said
evenly. "How do you know he's here?"

"Out on patrol duty," Carroll said, his eyes watching Ricky's expression
carefully. "I saw his name posted on the board in front of the
Commander's Office here--the Patrol Assignment Board. Your name was the
same as his. So I imagined from that and your other rather strange
anxiety in actions, that you were looking for someone and that this
other Werts chap was the man."

"Very clever deduction," Ricky said. "I'm thankful for your information,
but I don't particularly like the curiosity that prompted you to get
it."

Carroll smiled in what he imagined to be a disarming manner. "I still
insist, old boy, and this should be further proof, that it would never
hurt the situation any if you were to throw in with me. We could work
very well together."

Ricky disregarded this and went on with the motions of eating. But he
didn't actually touch his food after this, for his mind was too filled
with the elation of having at last found his brother. The waiting for
the signal that mess was over was almost more than he could stand, so
great was his eagerness to get out to the landing platform to wait for
Clark's patrol to return.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the signal came, Ricky was first on his feet. He almost ran from
the mess room. A quick glance across the parade ground and up at the
landing platform showed him that no patrols were in as yet. The big
space transport ship that had carried him here from Tromar was still
there, however, and engineers were working over its rocket tubes to get
it in shape for its return voyage.

Ricky then raced to the office of the Commanding Officer. On a Patrol
Assignment Board, just outside the door of the office, Ricky found what
Carroll had said he'd seen there. Clark's name on the list of men on
patrol duty.

Ricky lighted a cigarette and stalked nervously up and down the
corridors of the barracks for the next ten or fifteen minutes. He knew
that Clark's patrol wouldn't be in until another patrol had readied
itself to take off in place of it, and when he finally heard the
throbbing of atomic motors out on the landing platform, he almost
shouted with relief. It meant that a patrol was getting ready to go out,
and what was more important, was waiting for Clark's patrol to come in.

Ricky moved out of the barracks and onto the dusty parade ground.
Quickly, he trotted over to the landing platform and ascended the ladder
that brought him up to its shining surface.

One space patrol fighter was being warmed up, and beside it--at the far
end of the platform, away from the big transport--stood five
Legionaires, veterans of this garrison, who were clambering into their
space gear.

On the platform behind the space patrol fighter, a mechanic was checking
over a swivel mounted steamgun before placing it in the gun turret of
the ship which was being readied.

Ricky walked over to the group, and the five men getting ready for
patrol looked curiously at him, almost appraisingly, as if trying to
judge from his walk and actions what sort of replacements they'd been
given this day.

Flicking his cigarette over the side of the landing platform Ricky
addressed the nearest of the Legionaires who was slipping into extra
insulated space boots.

"Patrol should be in pretty soon, eh?" Ricky asked.

The Legionaire nodded. "Any minute. It's already overdue. We've been
here too long already."

"See plenty of action here, I imagine," Ricky said casually.

The Legionaire gave him a swift glance and then broke into hoarse
laughter. "Hell, buddy. Action is an understatement at Cepani. Wait'll
you _really_ get a taste of those _Malya_ devils!"

Ricky flushed at the Legionaire's scoffing reference to the attack on
the transport. Evidently these men, veterans by comparison, were
skeptically doubtful about the staying powers of the new replacements to
their garrison.

"Tough babies, eh?" Ricky asked. He peered upward into the dusk. The
Legionaire followed his gaze. Ricky saw nothing, but the Legionaire was
suddenly waving his arms.

"There's our patrol coming in!" he shouted to the others.

Ricky blinked, and then he saw it, a small dot high in the murky
heavens.

One of the mechanics was on his feet. "Hell," he shouted. "That ship is
in trouble!"

The Legionaire nodded excitedly, grimly. "You're right. She's limping
in!"

Then the men on the platform were cursing and moving swiftly around him.
How they had discerned that the patrol fighter was coming in in bad
shape was more than Ricky could guess, but he wasn't concerned with that
nearly as much as he was with the awful premonition that assailed him.

For that was Clark's patrol, and if it was in bad shape that meant that
something might have happened to Clark!

The dot was growing larger and larger now, and the men on the platform
had stopped running excitedly around and were waiting stolidly watching
it draw closer and closer.

The next minutes that passed seemed like an eternity to Ricky. He
wasn't aware of how long he stood there before the trim blue space
fighter patrol ship finally settled sluggishly to a landing on the lower
end of the platform.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ricky was with the rest of them as they dashed across the platform to
the side of the badly disabled craft. He was, in fact, the first one to
the door of the cabin, and even as he tugged it open a charred,
unpleasant odor assailed his nostrils.

Three men lay dead, their bodies gruesomely burned, in the cabin of the
fighting craft. Ricky was pushed aside as other Legionaires clambered
into the ship. Then he was forcing himself to follow them inside,
forcing himself to look closely at the baked features of what had been
Legionaires to find that none of them was Clark.

Then they were tearing open the bulkhead door that led to the
compartments where the two space pilots sat. They dragged out a limp
body that Ricky knew immediately to be dead. It was all he could do to
peer at the face. Not Clark--it wasn't Clark!

Sobbingly, praying and cursing in the same breath, Ricky forced his way
through the bulkhead into the forward pilots' compartment. Two
Legionaires were lifting a third gently from behind the controls of the
craft, a third was removing the man's space helmet.

Ricky saw the familiar red thatch of hair that was his brother's
trademark. Red hair on a head that rolled limply from side to side as
they carried the body from the compartment.

"I don't know how in the hell he got back," one of the Legionaires was
repeating over and over again. "I don't know how in the hell he got
back!"

Ricky crowded close to them, gazing down at the man they held in their
arms. Clark's handsome face looked up at him. But those laughing eyes
were closed, and the strong mouth was twisted, frozen, in anguish,
while his head continued to roll limply from side to side....




CHAPTER V

Brothers in Hell


"God," Ricky cried, "Oh, God!" His mind was a blaze of searing grief and
anguish and he followed dumbly, like a man in a trance, as the still
form of his brother was carried from the scarred space fighting craft.

There were others outside the disabled ship when they stepped out onto
the landing platform. Legionaires who had dashed to the platform the
moment the news of the disaster had reached the barracks. And in front
of the press of men around the ship, Ricky saw vaguely the stern, tired
face of the Commanding Officer.

He was directing the situation calmly, any emotions he might have had
cloaked behind his efficient handling of the disaster. His voice came to
Ricky foggily, as if from a great distance.

"Take that man," his finger was pointing at Clark, "to our emergency
ward immediately. There might be a chance."

"I don't think so, sir," one of the Legionaires was saying. "I think
he's already dead."

"Take him to the emergency ward!" the Commanding Officer's voice lashed
out like a whip.

A path was cleared in the press of bodies, and Clark, lifted to a
stretcher, was carried through this by two Legionaires. Ricky followed
dully behind. A hand reached out and caught his shoulder.

"Stand back from there, buddy. You're not a mascot for that cot!"

Ricky looked up and saw the face of a noncom unknown to him. His fist
snapped into a crashing blow before he was conscious of willing it. The
noncom, mouth red with blood, staggered back. Ricky turned dully,
scarcely conscious of what he'd done, and started after the stretcher.

Sergeant Marlow loomed up before him.

"What's wrong with you, Werts?" he shouted redly. "Have you lost your
mind?"

Ricky looked at him dully, shaking his head puzzledly like a man under
hypnosis. "No," he said thickly, slowly, "no, that man, that man on the
stretcher is my brother."

Marlow looked at him in amazement. He gulped once. Then his hand touched
Ricky's arm. "Follow along, Werts," he said simply.

Ricky turned away and followed after the stretcher....

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, it must have been three or four hours later, Ricky slumped dully
on a bare bench before the door of the emergency hospital of the
garrison. He had been that way, staring blankly at the corridor walls,
scarcely moving a muscle, for what had seemed to be eternity.

Inside the ward there had been sounds, murmuring voices. And Ricky had
bleakly tried to learn from these scant sounds what was going on in
there.

Yenka, on hearing the news that was flying through the barracks, had
come to Ricky to do what he could. Stumblingly, he had tried to express
his sympathy, his best wishes, and tried to press on Ricky a carton of
cheap cigarettes, Yenka's most priceless possession. He had left
eventually, however, realizing that there was little he could do until
word was learned of Clark's chances.

Ricky still waited for that word even now.

And suddenly the door of the emergency room opened. A young Lieutenant
Physician appeared in his white tunic. He looked at Ricky an instant,
while time hung breathless, then asked, "You are his brother?"

Ricky was already on his feet, shaking his head affirmatively, too
choked inside to say a word, utter a sound.

"Better get back to your barracks," the young lieutenant medico said
kindly. "The corporal, your brother, has pulled through splendidly.
He'll be in shape to talk to you tomorrow possibly."

Ricky's knees suddenly felt weaker than tissue. He held to the corridor
wall for support. Cold sweat stood out on his forehead, but he was
grinning, grinning like an idiot.

"Thank God," he said insanely, over and over again, "Thank God!"

The Lieutenant Physician smiled understandingly. "Get back to your
barracks, Legionaire," he said. "That's an order."

       *       *       *       *       *

Ricky went back to his barracks. But he did little sleeping that night,
for all he could think of was the almost tragic circumstances under
which he'd finally reached Clark.

And when the siren bugle sounded that following morning, Ricky was the
first man to dash from the barracks. Back outside the door of the
emergency ward once more, he found himself sympathetically sent away by
an orderly who assured him that Clark had improved through the night
vigil.

At mess, Carroll was the most vocally inquisitive member of Ricky's
contingent.

"So it was your brother you were looking for, eh?" Carroll asked
smilingly.

Ricky nodded. "Yes. I suppose it's barracks conversation by now." He
wasn't any more inclined to chatter with Carroll on this occasion than
any other.

"Odd, a brother combination in the Outer Space Patrol Legion," Carroll
mused aloud.

Ricky's glance was glacial. "Odd, the fun you have prying into things
that are none of your damned business!"

But as usual, Carroll seemed quite impervious to insult. "Sorry," he
grinned, "I guess I'm too fascinated by thinking of angles. A brother
combination in a set-up like this certainly points to the possibility of
a lot of angles in the background."

Ricky's eyes narrowed. Again he had the feeling of uncertainty as to how
much the blond Legionaire really knew. But it seemed too impossible to
consider that the ex-jewel thief would know anything about the reasons
that brought Clark and himself into the Legion. Reasoning this way,
Ricky dismissed the suspicion.

"He's greatly improved, your brother, I understand," Carroll said a
moment later.

Ricky nodded coldly and continued eating. Yenka, who sat on the other
side of him, muttered something into his plate about Carroll, and when
the mess was concluded, Ricky was on his feet and out of the hall before
Carroll could pick up a conversation again.

Once more Ricky returned to the emergency ward. The orderly was still in
front of the door, and Ricky waited around in the corridor, finishing a
cigarette until the Lieutenant Physician arrived.

The young medical officer smiled and nodded to Ricky and went inside the
ward. Impatiently, Ricky made another march down the corridor and, by
the time he returned to the door of the emergency ward, the Lieutenant
Physician was poking his head out of the door. He beckoned silently to
Ricky.

"He's able to see you for a few minutes now," the medical officer
declared. "But I wouldn't advise you to talk about anything that might
excite him. I'd also advise you to do most of the talking yourself."

Ricky nodded eagerly. The medico opened the door wider and Ricky stepped
into the large, light, spotlessly white emergency ward room. Only one
bed was occupied, and that was by a window. Clark lay in this bed, his
head propped up slightly by pillows.

He had a few minor bandages on his chin, several more patched on his
cheek, and his eyes were completely covered by bandages.

"There's a visitor for you, Corporal Werts," the young medical officer
told Clark.

Ricky saw his brother's head turn in the direction of the young medico's
voice.

Ricky turned to the Physician Lieutenant, asking a question with his
eyes. The young officer nodded and smiled.

"Certainly, I'll step out of the room."

The door closed behind the medico and Ricky walked quietly over to the
side of Clark's bed.

"Hello, Commander," he said. "You've had a hell of a scrape, but you
seem to be as tough as ever." His voice was husky, blurred with emotion.

Clark's head turned toward him, as if he were trying to see through the
bandages that covered his eyes. For a moment his jaw was slack in
wordless astonishment.

"Ricky!" he gasped, after an instant. His voice shook. "Good God, it's
you, Rick!"

Ricky placed a hand on his brother's arm. "Yeah, it's Ricky, Commander.
Just as always I never catch you when you're not involved in some slam
bang situation."

"But Rick," there was bewilderment as well as sheer elation in Clark's
excited voice. "Rick, boy, what are you doing here?"

"It's a long story, Commander," Ricky declared. "It begins with my
refusal to let a grand guy make a sap out of himself by heroic
self-accusations."

       *       *       *       *       *

Clark's expression suddenly changed, his face going grave. "I'll tell
you about that, kid. I'm guilty as hell, just as I insisted I was at
first. Sorry to shame you this way, Rick, but it's true." There was a
stubborn ridge to the muscles of his jaw.

Ricky's fingers dug into his brother's shoulders. "We'll hash that out
later, Clark. In the meantime you be a topnotch patient. At least you'll
have your kid brother around to look out for you from now on in, you big
hulking oaf."

The shadows left Clark's cheeks and he smiled. "Commander, eh? I passed
that title on to you, Rick, remember?"

Ricky's voice was husky again. "Yes, I remember. And that's what you
need from now on, Clark, a Commander to push you around."

Clark's expression became grave again. "I told you, Rick, on the other
thing, I'm guilty as--"

"Ah, ah," Ricky placed his hand gently over his brother's mouth. "We'll
talk about that later. Tomorrow, if you're well enough. But now I'd
better duck out of here. You'll need your rest."

Clark raised his hand, caught Ricky's. "Thanks, kid. Thanks for
everything. I, I, aw, hell, Commander, I should have known you'd track
me down. I should have known you'd follow me."

"I stick," Ricky said simply. "Just the way I know you'd stick. Keep a
stiff upper, Clark." He withdrew his hand from his brother's. "I'll be
in to see you tomorrow."

"So-long, Commander," Clark said softly.

"No grin?" Ricky asked. "Long lost brother and no grin?"

Clark grinned.

Ricky laughed. "That's better, oaf. Until tomorrow."

Ricky turned at the door before he stepped out of the room. Clark was
still grinning.

Out on the parade ground Ricky found Yenka waiting eagerly for him.

"How is brother?" Yenka asked earnestly.

"Swell, Yenk," Ricky said, patting the burly Martian's arm. "What seems
to be eating you? You look worried."

"_Malyas_," Yenka bit off the word distastefully.

Ricky's face went grim. "_Malyas?_"

"Last night," Yenka said, pointing skyward. "_Malyas_ catch transport
ship on way back Tromar. Khhhhheech!" He made a gesture that showed a
knife slitting a throat.

"They got the transport on the way back to Tromar?" Ricky gasped in
horror.

Yenka nodded. "Night patrol pick up sight wreckage of transport ship
drifting in space on way in with dawn."

Ricky considered this in horror. He hadn't known the transport was going
to attempt a return voyage to Tromar last night. Neither had any of the
others, for that matter. It was generally understood that they'd wait
until daylight to leave Cepani. Obviously the night departure had been
meant to avoid trouble with the _Malyas_. Obviously, too, that trouble
hadn't been avoided.

Ricky recalled the charred bodies he'd seen in the space patrol ship
his brother brought in, and promptly felt a little sick at the
realization of what had undoubtedly happened to the pilots of the space
troopship.

Instinctively he shuddered. "Anything else popping?"

"Along same trouble," Yenka answered. "Is rumor made that _Malyas_ plan
circle Cepani, wipe out garrison like before."

Ricky frowned. "Where'd you hear that? Certainly the officers would be
aware of it."

Yenka shrugged. "Dunno where hear. Is around barracks. Tell that
communications to Tromar, ev'vyplace else, cut off. No get word through
for help. Officers try. No do."

Sergeant Marlow came around the corner of the barracks building, saw
Ricky and Yenka, and hurried in their direction.

"Yenka," Marlow snapped. "Get to your quarters and get your gear ready.
We might need you on a scout patrol job."

Yenka saluted happily and hurried away. Marlow turned to Ricky. The
lines of worry on his face were too plain to ignore. Ricky had a hunch
that this might indicate the authenticity of the rumors Yenka picked up
around the barracks.

"Sorry about your brother, Werts," Sergeant Marlow said.

Ricky smiled. "It's all right now. He's pulled through. Just left him a
little while ago."

Sergeant Marlow's face became embarrassedly troubled. "You didn't talk
to the Lieutenant Physician?"

Ricky had a sudden, horrible sinking sensation.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I did, for a moment before I went in to see Clark.
Why?"

Marlow was plainly wishing he had bitten off his tongue. His face was
flushed. Ricky forgot the other's ranking, grabbing him by the sleeve
urgently, desperately.

"What do you mean, sergeant?" Ricky demanded. "For God's sake let me in
on whatever's wrong!"

Marlow said softly, "I'm sorry, Werts, I thought you'd been told. Your
brother's fine. That is, he'll be up and around in no time. But he's
blind, kid. He'll never see again!"




CHAPTER VI

The Siren Shrieks


For a moment Ricky stood there, too sickly stunned to say a word. His
face was drained of blood, his senses reeled in horror. Clark
blind--blind!

Marlow's hand was on Ricky's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Easy, kid.
It's not as if he'd died. You still have your brother alive and almost
in one piece. He was lucky, kid. Lucky as hell. He'll be around in
almost no time."

Ricky looked up wordlessly at Marlow. He shook his head slowly from side
to side.

"No." Ricky said. "No." He passed his hand tremblingly across his eyes,
and the significance of the gesture made him recoil as if from his own
thoughts.

Marlow's fingers dug deep into Ricky's shoulders now. "Snap out of it.
He's alive. He's perfectly intact. His eyesight is all he's lost. Snap
out of it, Werts!"

"Yeah," Ricky said, suddenly sickly resigned. "Yeah, that's all he's
lost--just his sight!" There was no mistaking the bitterness that shook
his voice.

Marlow said very softly, "Have your gear ready inside of an hour, Werts.
You may be assigned to scout patrol duty also."

Ricky nodded, saluted mechanically. Marlow slouched away in the thick
gray dust of the parade ground.

Unconsciously Ricky turned back toward the building which housed the
emergency ward. Clark was there--living in darkness from which he'd
never emerge.

Behind him, across the parade ground and up on the landing platforms,
Ricky heard the muffled throb of space patrol fighting ships being
warmed up for duty. Still plodding onward through the deep layers of
gray dust, Ricky continued toward the emergency ward building. He was
less than forty feet from the entrance when he saw a tall, wide
shouldered, lithe-hipped blond Legionaire emerge and look somewhat
furtively around.

It was Carroll.

Somehow seeing him coming from that building filled Ricky with an
instant's swift surprise and suspicion. This was gone when Carroll saw
him and grinned.

"Hello there, Werts," Carroll greeted him. "Glad to hear your brother's
pulled through so well."

Ricky's lips went tight. Obviously Carroll hadn't heard that Clark was
blind yet. Ricky nodded and tried to smile. No matter how much you
despised a man, you couldn't freeze him when he was offering friendly
greeting of that sort.

"Thanks," Ricky said briefly.

Carroll paused. "Came over to the ward to see if the Lieutenant
Physician was around. Had a message to give him from one of the
noncoms."

"Find him?" Ricky asked.

The question was innocuous enough, but Carroll seemed to hesitate for a
fraction before answering. "No," he said after an instant in which he
flushed slightly. "No, he wasn't around there anywhere." Then he added
quickly, "Nasty rumors flying around, aren't there?"

Ricky nodded grimly. "The _Malyas_, you mean of course."

Carroll nodded. "Yes. Our communications are supposed to have been cut
off completely, too, I understand."

"Bad," Ricky said tersely.

"Very," Carroll agreed. "Walking back to the barracks?"

Ricky shook his head. "Just going to drop back to peek in on my brother
for an instant. Then I've got to get back to the barracks and haul out
my gear. Might be assigned to a scout patrol sometime within the next
hour or so."

       *       *       *       *       *

Carroll looked disappointed, started to say something, changed his mind,
grinned, and strode away. Ricky watched him trudge through the thick
gray dust of the parade ground for an instant, then turned again toward
the entrance to the emergency ward.

As Ricky stepped into the building he almost collided with the young
Lieutenant Physician. Then he stepped back and saluted. The young
medical officer put out an arm to halt him.

"Werts," he said quietly, "there's something I have to tell you."

"I know," said Ricky evenly, fighting back any emotional recurrence. "I
just heard about Clark's blindness."

The young Lieutenant Physician swore softly in condemnation of himself.
"I'm sorry, Werts. I meant to tell you before you entered the room, then
I decided to let you know after you'd seen him. I was called away
momentarily, and you'd left by the time I returned."

"That's quite all right, sir," Ricky said huskily, his voice betraying
his emotions for the first time. "I understand."

"Otherwise he's doing splendidly," the young medico said in quick
assurance, as if trying to negate his other words. "He has the
recuperative powers of an ox. It wouldn't surprise me to see him walking
around tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," Ricky said. He started to move away, then hesitated.
"Legionaire Carroll was here a moment ago looking for you, sir. Said you
weren't around. He had a message from a noncom."

"Carroll?" The young lieutenant frowned. "The tall, blond chap? The one
with the wide shoulders?"

Ricky nodded.

"Why, that's odd," the young medico declared, sincerely bewildered. "I
met him as he was coming out of your brother's room. Your brother was
sleeping at the time, and Carroll had persuaded the orderly to let him
in for an instant to sort of silently pay his respects. When he passed
me coming out of the room he didn't say a word about it--just saluted
and went off."

Ricky frowned. "He was in to have a look at Clark, you say?" There was
something distinctly suspicious about Carroll now, Ricky was certain.
Something ominously suspicious.

       *       *       *       *       *

The young lieutenant nodded. "And you said he told you he'd been looking
for me. He must have forgotten it, which would be quite impossible under
the circumstances in which we passed one another. That's really very
odd."

Ricky's jaw was hard. "It is more than odd, sir," he said very softly.
"It's damned strange." He paused. "You say my brother was sleeping?"

"He still is," said the lieutenant. "The orderly didn't let Carroll go
much beyond the door because of the fear that he'd wake your brother.
The orderly was in the room all the time, or I should say, during the
very brief time Carroll was there."

Ricky shook his head. "I don't quite understand his interest; unless it
was prompted by knowing me."

"Perhaps that was it," said the medical officer vaguely.

Ricky saluted and started to turn away once more.

It was then that the silence was torn by the low, terrifying scream of
the bugle siren.

The lieutenant went rigid, as did Ricky. The siren stopped, then began
again. The same low, screaming whine pierced the air.

The young lieutenant's face went white. He turned to Ricky.

"Better get to the barracks immediately, Werts, that's the alarm siren.
This garrison is about to be attacked!"

But Ricky had already started toward the door. He'd learned his alarm
signals in primary training. And hearing the "attack" siren sounded
under these circumstances brought him immediately back into the harness
of the Legion. He turned once, as he started through the dust of the
parade ground, to satisfy himself that the medico would be taking care
of Clark. Then he bent his head and raced for the barracks ...




CHAPTER VII

Attack Alarm


At the barracks Ricky found a scene of frenzied activity. Legionaires,
dashing up and down the aisles of cots, were shouting to one another and
hurriedly climbing into space boots, and bringing forth fighting gear.

Ricky had no time, now, to think about the strange actions of Carroll;
and even the thought of Clark's tragedy was pushed to the back of his
mind as he struggled into space boots and strapped atomic pistol
holsters to his sides. This was action. This was space warfare. This was
what he and the rest of the Legionaires had been toughened and hammered
into. Ricky was a unit, a cog, of a fighting machine now. There was no
time for him to be anything else.

The siren bugle was picking up the alarm call again and again, sending
it wailing over the garrison. The sound of it quickened heartbeats, sent
pulses hammering and fighting blood pounding in the flesh of all these
Legionaires.

Yenka appeared briefly beside Ricky.

"_Malyas_," he said. "Like I hear rumor--_Malyas!_" The burly Martian's
white grin flashed happily as though this hour was what he had been
living for.

Ricky nodded, grabbing his electra-rifle and his space helmet.

"Parade ground?" he asked.

Yenka nodded. The Martian carried his space helmet under one arm, his
electra-rifle was slung over his massive shoulder. Two atomic pistols
were strapped to his sides, the duralloy butts of them gleaming like
twin death rays.

Ricky paused to throw his equipment momentarily on the cot while he drew
on his space gauntlets. Then Yenka was helping him sling the
electra-rifle over his shoulder, shoving his space helmet under his arm.

Legionaires were already dashing from the barracks and out to the parade
ground where they quickly formed ranks. Ricky and Yenka ran behind a
group of these, sprinting through the thick dust of the parade ground to
the half-formed platoon commanded by Sergeant Marlow. Breathlessly, they
took their places.

The alarm siren bugle was still wailing the attack signal.

Legionaires continued to dash from the barracks to the formations on
the parade ground, taking their places, grim, tense, expectant. The
ranks were at last filled, and suddenly the attack alarm siren stopped.
The silence became loud.

From his quarters, the Commanding Officer of the Cepani garrison
suddenly appeared, followed by his staff. Moments later he stood before
the ranks of his under-officers and men, his eyes sweeping across the
formations in grim satisfaction.

Then he spoke, his voice harsh and commanding.

"This comes sooner than we had reason to believe it would, men," the CO
declared. "The _Malyas_ are moving in on us, you all know that much by
now. The patrols we have out there at the moment are doing a valiant job
of standing them off--but the ring will break at any moment and the
devils will be swarming in on us." He paused, his cold eyes sweeping
once more along the ranks.

"The garrison before us was wiped out--slaughtered--completely by these
same devils. This very rotten dust you stand on, rank and nauseous, is
the scorched hell their attack left behind them on that occasion. The
garrison that so valiantly perished defending Cepani before us was
completely surprised. The _Malyas_ had never penetrated this territory
before that." The Commanding Officer coughed. "We are not unprepared.
Those of you who have been here for more than a month are well trained
in the defense of this fortress. Those of you who have but recently
arrived here as replacements," he paused to look at Sergeant Marlow's
outfit, "are the best men from our primary training centers. We haven't
had time to train you in the garrison defense of Cepani--you last
arrivals. But you are trained in space warfare, and all of you have had
your first taste of its actuality during your voyage here."

Ricky wondered what the CO was leading to.

"As a consequence," he went on, "you will be given the task of relieving
our defending patrols in space. The veterans of this garrison--those who
have been thoroughly trained to its personal defense--will remain to man
the very walls of the garrison. We have decided this the most logical
move. That is all. Your superior officers will give you your
instructions. I need not remind you that the honor of the Outer Space
Patrol Legion demands the avenging of the last massacre of the Cepani
garrison. Good luck, Legionaires!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Commanding Officer turned on his heel, and strode swiftly through
the heavy dust back to the headquarters building. Three of his under
officers followed behind him.

There was a momentary silence, then the voices of the subaltern officers
were barking commands to the ranks. Ricky heard Marlow's husky voice.

"That's our assignment, men. You know its importance. Due to the
scarcity of our numbers, the patrols will be divided into five groups of
four men each. Each of the patrols will have a leader, with the
exception of the squadron fighter which will be commanded by me." He
paused a moment. "Step forward, those men whose names I call, and
receive from me the lists of the men in your patrols. You men are to
lead your individual space fighter craft. You will keep in constant
communication with my squadron fighter."

Sergeant Marlow took off one of his space gauntlets and dug a beefy hand
inside his tunic pocket. He brought forth four white slips of paper.

"Higgens," Marlow barked. A short, wiry Legionaire stepped forward and
the sergeant handed him one of these slips.

"You're in charge of the first space fighter craft," he said. "The men
to be with you are on this list."

Higgens turned, read three names, and three more Legionaires stepped
from the ranks.

"Proceed to the space landing platform," Marlow said. "Your craft has
been assigned to you. Wait there for further instructions." Higgens
saluted and led the three men of his crew at a brisk trot to the landing
platform.

Marlow looked at one of the slips in his hand an instant, then raised
his head. Ricky saw the sergeant's eyes meet his.

"Werts," Marlow said.

Ricky stepped forward, heart pounding, and took the slip Marlow,
extended to him. Ricky saluted, turned, and looked down at the list.

"Yenka," Ricky read aloud, "Carroll, and Mepha!"

Yenka, beaming happily stepped from the ranks and joined Ricky. Carroll,
smiling faintly, sauntered from his position also. Mepha, the third man
in Ricky's patrol, a fat, round, little Junovian with a bald head and a
hairless face, stepped forward also. Mepha was a topnotch man with an
atomic cannon.

"Landing platform," Ricky said. Then he saluted Marlow once more and
started in a trot through the heavy dust of the parade ground toward the
landing platform some eighty yards away. He could hear the others
running behind him, and then he was ascending the duralloy ladder to the
landing platform, while the throb of atomic motors and the spluttering
of preliminary rocket bursts filled his ears.

On the platform, Ricky was met by a perspiring mechanic who asked,
"Second patrol?"

Ricky nodded. "Werts in command," he answered. The words sounded
strangely reminiscent, and then for a fleeting instant he recalled the
games that he and Clark had played as kids.

The mechanic jerked his thumb to a sleek, blue, bullet nosed space
fighter craft at the far end of the platform.

"Your ship," he said. "She's well warmed. Guns've been checked,
everything set."

Ricky turned to Yenka, Carroll, and Mepha. "That's our baby," he
pointed. "You three get over there, and I'll stand by here to get any
last instructions from Sergeant Marlow."

Yenka and Mepha nodded and started over to the craft. Carroll, grinning
annoyingly, lingered to say, "Sure thing, chief." There was amused
mockery in his words.

       *       *       *       *       *

The third group of Legionaire was on the platform, now, and Higgens, in
charge of the first group, had joined Ricky to wait for Marlow's final
instructions. The leader of the third group took his place beside them,
as did the leader of the fourth patrol who appeared on the platform
minutes later.

Then, at last, Marlow stood before them. "Ships will leave the platform
in the order of patrol number originally designated," he barked above
the now deafening roar of rockets and motors. "We'll meet at the edge of
the first zone defense belt, and I'll give each ship its assignment by
communication," he said. "Good luck."

Marlow turned then, and trotted toward the squadron fighter--the central
command of the group--a larger, fatter, more heavily armed craft.

Ricky wheeled and trotted down to the far end of the platform where
Yenka, Carroll, and Mepha waited beside their ship.

"All set!" Ricky shouted. "Let's go!"

They climbed in before him, slipping on their space helmets as they did
so. When Ricky followed them into the cabin of the space fighter craft,
he held up a gauntleted hand, showing four fingers. The three nodded,
adjusting the receptor buttons on their space suits to the band he'd
indicated.

Ricky adjusted his glass turreted helmet, set the ban receptor on his
own space suit.

"Mepha will take the rear atomic cannon bubble," Ricky announced into
the micropanel of his helmet. Inside his own glass turret, Mepha's bald,
round head nodded and grinned. The little Junovian went back to his
post.

"Yenka will cover the electraguns on our under bubble," Ricky announced
then. "And you, Carroll, take care of the port and starboard porthole
defense."

Yenka pushed back a section of the flooring in the space craft which
revealed a small compartment just large enough for him to fit into. It
was a veritable tiny fortress from which he could--by use of the deadly
electraguns placed there--successfully cover the ship from any attack
from beneath.

Carroll grinningly took his seat along the starboard porthole of the
ship, stacking the electric-rifles of the others in order beside him for
sniping use. Ricky waved a gauntleted hand, and opened the door leading
to the pilot compartment in the fore of the ship.

And then Ricky was behind the instrument panel of the craft, checking
navigational dials and inspecting the trigger releases on the brace of
small atomic cannon which were his to command in flight.

The pilot compartment was basically designed for the use of two men.
The co-pilot generally being responsible for the gunnery while the
pilot handled the ship itself. With the skeleton crew system, however,
it was Ricky's duty to be both gunner and pilot.

Ricky checked the instruments a second time, and flicked the switch that
connected him with Marlow's larger squadron fighter.

"Werts, in command of second patrol," Ricky announced. "Coming in,
sergeant."

Ricky spoke into the same micropanel of his space helmet as he used to
address the crew. The exception was that he had flicked a second
receptor button which would send his voice through the communication
panel on instrument board before him. He waited a moment.

Marlow's voice came in. "Second patrol, stand by. Second patrol, stand
by. First patrol leaving, first patrol leaving."

Ricky waited, tensely, gauntleted hand on the throttle that would throw
the atomic motors into full speed.

Seconds seemed to trickle by. Ricky's heart pounded. Out there in space
the _Malyas_ waited. Even at this moment they were trying to break
through the ring of patrol ships standing them off from Cepani.

Then Marlow's voice came in again. "Second patrol--second patrol--second
patrol!"

"Second patrol standing by!" Ricky announced.

"Up and at 'em, Werts," Marlow's voice came in. "We meet at the first
zone defense belt. Don't engage in combat under any circumstances until
you receive your assignment."

Ricky leaned forward, giving the first pressure to the atomic motor
throttle.

"Second patrol--leaving," Ricky announced. He shoved hard on the
throttle, the ship shuddered for a fleeting second. Ricky eased the
power an instant, then the back of his seat was pressing hard against
his spine and they were hurtling out into space.

       *       *       *       *       *

The blackness of the night flashed by, silvered by starstream as the
space fighter ship climbed farther and farther out to meet the void.
Ricky's fingers were tense on the controls, his face anxious, his
forehead beaded with tiny drops of sweat.

Minutes flicked by, and Ricky checked his instruments once more,
altering the course of the ship several degrees, sliding the nose more
directly toward the rendezvous agreed on with Marlow.

More minutes flew by, while Ricky, preoccupied by his calculations,
continued to check his instrument panel. Then finally he leveled the
space craft out, sending it in a wide, wheeling arc. Through his
vizascreen he could see the nose of the ship of the first patrol down
below them, circling lazily in the same waiting maneuver. This was the
place of rendezvous with Marlow's squadron fighter.

Ten minutes later Ricky saw the third patrol space ship wheel into
vision on the vizascreen, higher than his own ship, and begin the same
wheeling maneuver. Ten minutes after that, the fourth patrol ship
appeared, still higher, and swung wide in identically the same tactical
waiting maneuver.

Marlow's squadron fighter appeared at last, taking a position higher
than them all. Ricky flicked the switch that connected communications
with the larger ship once again.

"All four patrol ships!" Marlow's voice sounded. "Come in on the
connection."

Ricky announced his ship after Higgens had chimed in. The leaders of
the other patrols followed in order.

"Higgens' fighter is assigned to my patrol," Marlow's voice declared.
"We are to relieve those patrols already on duty and in action against
the _Malyas_."

Ricky frowned impatiently. Higgens was assigned to duty with Marlow, and
if Ricky knew the sergeant well enough, he realized that the red necked
Legionaire would select the fightingest, most dangerous spot for
himself.

"Patrol two, Werts in charge," Marlow's voice came in again, "will
proceed immediately to--" and then he gave the navigational directions
to the spatial location, "where it will be expected to destroy the
_Malyan_ forces established there to cut off Cepani Garrison
communication with Tromar."

Ricky felt a swift chilling thrill along his spine. This was action.
This was an assignment equally as dangerous as that which Marlow had
selected for himself.

"When this has been accomplished," Marlow's voice went on, "the second
patrol is to return immediately to Cepani for further instructions if it
is possible." The last four words had an ominous ring to them.

"I repeat my navigational directions to patrol two," Marlow picked up
again. And then, while Ricky made rapid chart notations on the table by
his instrument panels, Marlow repeated his navigational instructions.

"That is all, patrol two. Proceed immediately--as instructed. Good
luck!"

Ricky cut himself back in. "Second patrol," he said, "proceeding at once
as directed." He snapped off the switch, checked his instruments with
his navigational readings, allied them swiftly, and threw the space
fighter craft over and down in a rolling dive, picking up tremendous
velocity and straightening out after the outline of the first patrol
ship had blurred by them.

"On the way!" Ricky muttered tightly to himself. Then he settled down to
following his navigational directions.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ricky had a fair idea of what he could expect to encounter on his
assignment. The _Malyas_ had a particular method of ambush attack, and
it seemed to be this same method that they were now employing.

It depended first on superior strength, second on a cunningly unexpected
attack. They had both advantages in this present attack on Cepani.
Thirdly, their mode of ambush included the complete severance of
communications between the garrison under attack and any other posts
that might rush them aid. In this instance they had blanketed Cepani in
silence, making it impossible for the post there to communicate with
Tromar, the nearest and largest Legion replacement center.

And it was up to Ricky, and Ricky alone, to destroy this blanket of
silence that had been thrown around the Cepani Garrison by the _Malya_
attackers.

Yenka appeared at the bulkhead door to Ricky's forward compartment
somewhat later. He held up four fingers to indicate that he had
something to say. Ricky flicked the receptor button on his own space
suit and nodded.

"We have assignment?" Yenka asked.

"Right," Ricky answered. "I was waiting for one of you to stick your
nose in here. We're to break up the communications jam the _Malyas_ have
belted around Cepani."

Yenka grinned, tremendously pleased by this information. He nodded
happily, enthusiastically.

"Pass it on to Carroll and Mepha," Ricky instructed.

Yenka nodded and disappeared, slamming the bulkhead door behind him.
Ricky settled back once again to a careful rechecking of his chart and
instrument panel. It would take several more hours to arrive at his
dangerous destination.

Those hours were not long in passing....




CHAPTER VIII

Battle in the Void


Ricky saw the long, sleek, silver outline of the _Malyan_ engineering
vessel in his vizascreen when he was still several space miles away from
it. It was almost the size of a space battleship, but was lower and more
heavily turreted.

Beneath some of those turrets, Ricky knew, were concealed heavy guns to
repulse attack, and beneath the others were the vital machines which
were this moment sapping all space-radio power from the belt that had
been thrown around Cepani. Sapping that communication power from the
void, so that the Cepani garrison's frantic signals of appeal would
never get through to Tromar.

And then, but the fraction of a minute later, the _Malyans_ aboard the
long engineering space craft realized his approach. He could see small
dots, figures that must have been _Malyans_, rushing swiftly along the
open deck spaces of the craft. Then, it seemed scant seconds later,
three silver bullets streaked out into the void from hidden catapults.

Fighting craft, _Malyan_ scout fighters, sent forth to intercept the
attack on the engineering vessel!

Ricky reached forward swiftly and flicked the button on his instrument
panel which connected him with the gun positions on his own craft.

"Action!" he barked. "Three enemy fighter ships just launched from
engineering vessel. Bearing in on us soon, stand by your posts!"

He flicked the switch back and turned his attention to the controls of
his craft, throwing the ship into a nose-up climb. Running his tongue
over dry lips, Ricky kept his eyes alternately moving from his
instrument panel to the vizascreen. The enemy craft were deploying in a
wide formation, each obviously preparing to take a section of Ricky's
craft in their attack on it.

The _Malyan_ fighters, however, couldn't outclimb him. Ricky smiled in
satisfaction as he realized this, and made swift plans accordingly as
they followed him upward, dropping behind with every passing second.
From the center of his vizascreen, Ricky could see the foremost _Malyan_
ship.

If they couldn't outclimb him, then they couldn't outdive him.

The _Malyan_ ships were faster than his own on straight stretches. Ricky
knew this and had already resolved to keep the hell off straight stretch
maneuvering.

His target selected, Ricky set himself for his maneuver. He flicked the
communication switch to his gun positions. "Hang on tight," he shouted.
"Hang on tight and prepare to fire as we dive. Center _Malyan_ ship will
be your target!"

Ricky pulled back on the control levers, flipping the ship over on its
back and down swiftly in a straight dive. Directly in the center of his
vizascreen, rushing at him with incredible speed, was the center
_Malyan_ craft.

Ricky's gauntleted fingers found the trigger bars controlling the brace
of atomic cannon in the nose of his craft. He was fighting back the
physical nausea accompanied by the dizzying force of his terrific dive.

And then the nose of the silver _Malyan_ craft was less than two hundred
yards away, and already the pilot was trying desperately to veer off
from Ricky's ship, which, if it followed its dive, would surely crash
headlong into the other craft.

But on either side of the _Malyan_ craft were companion fighters. And
any veering to either side would inevitably be at the cost of both the
veering craft and the ship it collided with on its side.

The _Malyan_ craft was trapped. Its pilot elected to take the only other
course, just as Ricky had prayed to God he would. The silver space
fighter pulled up and over, in a frantic effort to dive back and out of
the way. The broad silver outline of its belly gleamed in Ricky's
trigger sights for as long as he needed.

       *       *       *       *       *

His fingers pressed the firing bars. Bolts of orange flame spat forth
from the nose of his ship, blasting the silver _Malyan_ craft into
splashing thousands of searing red fragments!

The two companion ships to the annihilated _Malyan_ fighter passed in
twin flashes of silver on either side of Ricky, still climbing as he
dove, unable to check their speed in time to turn and pursue him.

Ricky grinned grimly. One out of the way.

But the others would be in pursuit at any moment. He began to pull
slowly out of his dive, careful not to black himself out with any too
sudden maneuver.

Now, suddenly, in his vizascreen he saw the outline of the momentarily
unprotected engineering craft of the _Malyas_, and just as suddenly
remembered the vital importance of his mission. The downing of the
defending space fighters was incidental to the destruction of this
craft that had blotted out all communication.

Ricky's hand found the electra-bomb releases below his instrument panel.
He leveled off slightly, then threw his ship into another dive. In the
vizascreen, the engineering craft of the _Malyas_ loomed swiftly larger,
wider. Some of the silver turrets on the deck of the long slim craft
rolled back and black snouts of cannon appeared.

Ricky gritted his teeth. The craft had more to protect it than its
fighter ships. But this was his chance. He continued the dive. The
vizascreen showed the engineering craft vastly larger now, and Ricky
pulled back slowly out of his dive, releasing electra-bombs as he did
so.

Hell broke loose beneath him. Two of the electra-bombs found their marks
and exploded aft and amidships on the silver craft. And at the same
instant, red flashes of flame puffed from the snouts of the defending
cannon, the blasts from the bolts rocking Ricky's ship like a leaf in a
gale.

Ricky climbed, then. Climbed as swiftly as he could. The two silver
fighter scouts of the _Malyas_ would be somewhere up above him, he knew.
But he had to climb out of range of the guns on the deck of the
engineering craft.

And as he climbed, the first of the remaining two silver _Malya_ space
fighters dove down on him in attack.

Ricky rolled over hard to the right, and as he did so, felt the
vibration of Mepha's rear atomic cannon shaking the ship as the little
Junovian gunner opened fire.

There was a blinding burst of flame somewhere on the tail of his ship,
and Ricky instinctively realized what had happened. The superb little
Junovian gunner had spied the second _Malyan_ fighter diving in on the
rear flank and had destroyed it with an incredibly accurate burst of
fire.

Ricky felt a fierce flame of pride. The Legion trained men to fight like
the very devils of hell!

Two down--one to go!

But that one was accounting for itself with a deadly hail of _neonfire_,
blue bolts of streaming death, working on the top of Ricky's ship from
an uncovered position as it relentlessly continued its dive. Ricky
continued to roll his craft hard to the right, instinctively waiting for
the vibration that would signal Yenka had opened fire from the belly of
the ship, which was now up toward the diving _Malyan_ craft.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was no thudding vibration from Yenka's electraguns. Time hung in
hell while Ricky waited for that vibration. Desperately, he flicked the
communication-to-gun-bubble switch.

"Yenka!" Ricky screamed. "For the love of God, Yenk, Fire!"

Yenka's voice, tight and despairing, came back.

"Guns jammed. Guns jammed to hell, Reeky--s, soooreee!"

Ricky's eyes went wide in horror. Yenka, there in the gun bubble, belly
up to the diving _Malyan_ craft, with his guns jammed. Wildly, Ricky
tried to throw the ship back on its stomach to give his burly Martian
comrade cover. But it was too late--grim seconds too late.

"Agggghhhheee!"

Yenka's scream gurgled to Ricky's ears, along with the _snicking_ hail
of _neonfire_ shattering the bubble covering in which the Martian gunner
had been covered.

Ricky continued his roll-over, sickeningly aware that he had heard the
happy-go-lucky, hard-fighting Martian's voice for the last time--in a
death scream!

But there was no time to think of that now. Every second was precious,
every twisting gyration through which he put his ship meant the ultimate
difference between life and death.

And then the _Malyan_ fighter had streaked past, veering down to the
right as it did so, to keep out of range of Ricky's fore guns in
counterfire.

Ricky jammed the nose of his ship upward, then, climbing for every last
millimeter's advantage he could get, a new scheme in mind. Below him lay
the partially disabled engineering craft of the _Malyas_. Below his
right beam the silver streak of the _Malyan_ fighter ship was leveling
out of its dive and beginning a counter climb.

Deliberately, Ricky slowed the power of his climb, giving the silver
enemy ship to the far right of him a chance to gain in the twin
maneuver.

The remaining _Malyan_ ship would try to outclimb him, Ricky knew, for
height was a precious advantage in space combat. But this time Ricky was
willing to sacrifice that advantage. This time he wanted to get the
_Malyan_ ship on his tail.

And his enemy continued to climb, continued to gain greater height.
Ricky was leveling off now, watching his vizascreen intently. The
_Malyan_ ship had noticed his new maneuver, and now that it had a height
advantage was also leveling. Ricky flicked the communication switch on
his instrument panel.

"Mepha!" he barked. "Get ready to fire. There'll be a silver streak on
our tail pretty quickly."

"Not for long," Mepha's voice came back confidently. "All set, Ricky."

Ricky snapped the switch. In the vizascreen he could see the engineering
ship directly below him. In the upper corner of the screen he was able
to see the _Malyan_ fighter ship wheeling around to get on his tail. He
waited tensely, giving the silver ship its chance to complete this
maneuver. Then he waited for a fraction of a second longer, while the
_Malyan_ craft, picking up the incredible speed it possessed on straight
stretches, dashed toward him.

Then Ricky threw the controls forward, pointing the nose of his ship
directly down at the engineering vessel. Behind him, now, less than a
hundred yards away, was the _Malyan_ space fighter. Ricky saw its nose
drop as it followed him down in his dive, sticking to his tail.

       *       *       *       *       *

The back of Ricky's seat was pressing hard against his spine, and
dizziness was assailing him again. The engineering craft was looming
larger and larger on his screen. The _Malyan_ fighter was still on his
tail. But Ricky wasn't utilizing full power for his dive. He was giving
his pursuer a chance to draw closer. Close enough so that it would be
directly within the same firing range that Ricky was. Close enough so
that the engineering ship below would have to withhold its own defensive
fire for fear of downing the silver _Malyan_ fighter along with Ricky's
ship.

The _Malyan_ pilot was realizing the trap he'd fallen into, realizing
that he'd formed a protective shield for Ricky's craft unwittingly. But
it was too late. He was already in a peak velocity dive. He couldn't
pull out of it and away from Ricky's tail without tearing his ship to
shreds.

And the engineering ship below was forced to withhold its fire!

Ricky's gauntleted hand found the electra-bomb release. They caught the
engineering craft in five sections, shattering it from stem to stern in
belching explosions of hellish fury, accomplishing his mission as
ordered!

Slowly, still staring into the vizascreen at the smouldering ruins that
remained of the engineering craft, Ricky pulled out of his dive.
Momentarily, in the wild surge of elation he felt, he had forgotten the
remaining _Malyan_ space fighter.

And that momentary forgetfulness was almost enough to cost Ricky his
life and the lives of his command.

A whirring streak of silver shot past the nose of his craft. In leveling
off after pulling out of the dive, Ricky had forgotten that the _Malyan_
ship was still on his tail, and that in a level stretch he could be
easily overtaken by it. He felt the vibration of the _Malyan_ craft's
_neonfire_ lacing along the sides of his ship, felt a second jarring
thud on the nose of his craft, and looking startledly through the
forward porthole of his compartment gasped in astonishment.

A _Malyan_, space suited and carrying a ray weapon, had boarded his ship
and was even now advancing cautiously along the nose of the craft toward
Ricky's compartment!

       *       *       *       *       *

Swiftly Ricky cursed, recalling that this daring boarding stunt was a
favorite trick of the _Malyas_. One _Malyan_ would disable an enemy
craft at the expense of his own life if need be!

Ricky's hand flew to the communication switch. He flicked it swiftly.

"Carroll!" Ricky shouted. "_Malyan's_ boarded us. Coming along the
nose!"

Carroll's voice came back, almost nonchalantly. "Rightho, I'll greet the
devil!"

Ricky watched the strange, space suited creature advancing slowly,
laboriously, along the nose of the ship, cursing his own inability to
remedy the situation. The creature could not be reached by Ricky's
cannon fire, and there were no other weapons within the compartment
which would be of use against him.

Then Ricky was aware that the weapon the _Malyan_ carried was spitting
flame. And he was also suddenly conscious of the fact that the creature
was crumpling, twisting, under the fire of Carroll's electra-rifle!

The creature pitched sidewards then, and for an instant fought for
balance before pitching off the nose of the ship. Ricky flicked the
communication switch again.

"Nice work, Carroll," he shouted.

"Picking off ducks," Carroll's voice came smugly back to him.

Ricky cut the switch, turned to the navigational chart and made
calculations which would take them back to Cepani. For the job was done.
The silver _Malyan_ ship, after seeing the disaster that overtook their
boarding stunt, was dashing off, unwilling to continue the combat
further. _Malyans_ stayed to fight only when the odds were in their
favor, never when the odds were even.

Ricky swung the nose of his ship around, feeling suddenly weary. The
appeals to Tromar would get through, now, the interference in the
communications was eliminated. And Yenka lay dead in the lower gun
bubble. Minutes later the bulkhead door of his compartment swung open
and Carroll stepped in, grinning. He pointed to his receptor button.

"Next move?" Carroll asked.

"Back to Cepani," Ricky said, turning his head slightly. "We're to get
further instructions there."

Carroll nodded. "That's what I thought," he said.

Ricky didn't see the heavy wrench Carroll held in his hand. He didn't
see it until it had swung high and started to descend on his helmet in a
vicious arc. Then it was too late, for the jarring concussion of the
blow on his shatter proof helmet knocked him senseless. Blackness, warm
and sticky, settled in on him ...




CHAPTER IX

Carroll Pegged


Foggily, Ricky could hear the throbbing of rockets and motors against
the blanket of pain that dulled his senses. He was conscious of moving
his arms and legs, trying to turn himself. And then he opened his eyes.

He was on the landing platform of the Cepani Garrison. A round, bare
face was bending over him. Mepha's face.

Ricky sat up, dazedly trying to wipe the cobwebs from his mind. There
was a nausea in the pit of his stomach and he felt like vomiting.
Vaguely he began to remember what had happened.

"Better now?" Mepha grinned.

Ricky felt his head. His helmet had been removed. And now full
recollection hit him. His expression was one of tight anxiety. He
grabbed Mepha by the arm.

"Carroll, where's Carroll?" he demanded, fingers biting deep.

Mepha grinned. "Carroll all right. Carroll bring in ship after you knock
head on bulkhead."

Ricky was trying to rise, and Mepha was helping him to his feet.

"You mean," Ricky grated, "Carroll told you I'd had an accident, was
knocked out?"

Mepha nodded. "I came up to forward compartment. Saw Carroll kneeling
over you. He saw you have accident. He take ship back."

Ricky realized now why he was still alive. Carroll had been interrupted
by Mepha after he'd knocked Ricky out. He didn't dare do away with him
while the Junovian looked on.

"I drag you back into compartment, main compartment, leave Carroll up
front to take in ship," Mepha explained. "No think you come around so
soon. Accident like that usually keep man unconscious many hour."

"Yes," Ricky nodded grimly. "Evidently Carroll thought so, too. Where in
the hell is that skunk?"

Mepha was faintly puzzled. "He back at barracks," he declared. "Help
coming in from Tromar, now. Garrison sitting pretty. _Malyans_ going
'way--fast." He grinned.

Ricky took a few tentative steps, found he could maneuver under his own
steam. He started for the ladder leading down to the parade ground.

"Where you go?" Mepha cried anxiously. "You weak, you too sick yet to
try run around."

"I've got a nasty puzzle to clean up," Ricky shouted. Then he was
scrambling down the ladder and his feet were hitting the thick dust of
the parade ground. Seconds later he was racing toward the barracks. He
found them deserted, save for one Legionaire.

"Seen Carroll?" Ricky demanded.

The Legionaire nodded. "He just left. Said something about an
assignment. But he headed toward the emergency ward first."

Ricky wheeled and dashed from the barracks. The emergency ward! Clark
was there, and Carroll had gone there just before the _Malyan_ attack
had started. Gone there, for some mysterious reason, to see Clark. And
now, after knocking Ricky out, and wanting for some mysterious reason to
kill him, Carroll was heading for Clark once more!

There was no one in the corridor of the emergency ward building when
Ricky arrived there. There was no sentry posted outside Clark's door.
Ricky heard the sounds, then, sounds coming from behind that door.
Sounds of struggle, muffled, desperate!

The door was locked from the inside. Ricky stepped back four paces and
crashed into it with his shoulder. It tore slightly. Ricky stepped back
again. The sounds of struggle were louder inside the room. Ricky heard
muffled curses.

He crashed his shoulder into the door again. This time the lock tore
through the jamb and sent Ricky sprawling into the room and against
someone's legs.

It was pitch dark in the room, and Ricky's groping hands felt that the
legs were clad in space boots. They wouldn't be Clark's. He wrapped his
arms around them, pulled backward. There was a loud curse as a body
crashed down on Ricky--Carroll's voice!

       *       *       *       *       *

Then Ricky was rolling out from under the body, his fists smashing again
and again into a face. The body suddenly went limp beneath him. Ricky
leaped to his feet, sought the wall switch, and flooded the room with
light. There at his feet, his face a bloody mess from the effect of
Ricky's fists, lay Carroll!

"Ricky!" a voice in the corner gasped.

Ricky wheeled, and for the first time saw Clark, swaying in the corner
of the room with a heavy duralloy chair raised in his massive arms.

"Clark!" Ricky sobbed. "Clark, old rock, he didn't get you!"

Clark's bandage was torn from his head, and there was a fresh cut on the
side of it, next to the half healed wound already there. The fresh slash
was bleeding.

"He tried to, God knows," Clark said weakly. "He entered in the
darkness--that was his mistake. We were on even terms that way. I could
tell where he was by his breathing. When I called out and he didn't
answer, I knew something was fishy. I grabbed everything I could get my
hands on, made a dive for him, and started pounding. I--" Clark had
crossed the room to Ricky's side, and was staring down at Carroll, his
mouth open.

"My God," Clark gasped. "It's Lebanc!"

But Ricky, too, was staring in open mouthed astonishment. Staring,
however, at Clark. His face was a mixture of emotions. "Clark," he
shouted wildly, "Clark--_you can see!_"

His brother looked up at him blankly. "Why not--" he began.

But Ricky had grabbed him by both shoulders. "You can see!" he repeated
again and again. "A blow of Carroll's must have jarred your vision
back!"

Ricky was laughing and sobbing and pounding his brother on the arm
ecstatically. "You were supposed to be blind, Clark! Blind for life!
They didn't tell you, and I couldn't bring myself to it. But a blow gave
us a miracle. Your sight is back!"

Clark was grinning now. "And that isn't all that's back, Rick. That
isn't all that's back by a long shot. The person you see sprawled on the
floor before you, the person you called Carroll, is really a chap named
Lebanc. A lousy skunk I searched through hell to find. The murderer of
my competitor. The guy who committed the crime I was tagged for."

Lebanc, alias Carroll, stirred slightly and groaned. Ricky, still
grinning like an idiot, resisted the savage impulse to kick him in the
head....

       *       *       *       *       *

When sanity returned to the little garrison on Cepani some few hours
later, and the replacements from Tromar--after sweeping the space lanes
clear of the attacking _Malyas_--took over the patrols to give the men
of Cepani's gallant garrison a much needed rest, Carroll, or Lebanc,
confessed in full to the Divisional Commanding Officer.

Clark and Ricky were at the murderer's side during the proceedings to
see that he told his story correctly. And by fitting the pieces
together, the thing became clear.

"I was certain Lebanc, alias Carroll, had taken refuge in the ranks of
the Outer Space Patrol Legion," Clark had stated. "I joined to find
him."

"But you were slightly ahead of him," the Divisional Commander observed.
"He joined after you did."

Clark nodded. "That's right. But he did join, as I'd had a hunch he
would, thank God."

"Never imagining that you were already in the Legion," Ricky added,
"until he found out by mistake while going through the Divisional
Reports on the sly. Your electraphoto was there, and he recognized it.
That's when he began to get ideas about escape. He knew he'd need a
confederate and picked out me as his foil."

Clark nodded. "Never suspecting you were my brother," he said.

"Then it wasn't until his arrival at Cepani, where fate threw the three
of you together, that he knew something had to be done fast," the
Divisional Commander declared.

Ricky nodded this time. "But fate played into his hands. Clark came in
from patrol that day, badly wounded and blind as far as anyone knew.
That's when Lebanc, or Carroll if you will, had to visit you to make
certain you were the man he feared. Fortunately, he didn't know you were
thought to be blinded for life. He merely presumed your eyes were
bandaged and that you'd be up and around shortly to identify him."

Clark grinned ruefully. "And I would have been killed then and there by
our chum, if a sentry hadn't been with him when he peeked in on me. As
it was, when the attack alarm sounded, he had to postpone his plans
until return. By then, however, he was wondering how much Ricky knew
about the situation. That's why he tried to kill Ricky on the way back
to Cepani after the destruction of the _Malyan_ engineering base."

"Mepha prevented him from doing that," Ricky broke in. "But he figured I
was out for quite a spell, and when he brought the ship in he headed for
Clark, intending to kill him, then escape on his own in one of the
patrol fighters."

The Divisional Commander smiled faintly. "But you broke in in time to
save your brother's neck, in true Legion pattern, eh, Werts?"

Ricky clenched and unclenched his fists subconsciously. "I was ready to
kill Carroll," he admitted.

The Divisional Commander grinned frankly this time. "Sometimes," he
observed, "I'm inclined to believe we plant the killing instinct too
strongly in you men. However, I'll admit you had a natural reaction."

Ricky turned to Clark. "What about the note you left me, and the body
that was found in your wrecked sports spaceship?"

Clark shook his head. "Some poor devil about my size and weight that
Carroll, alias Lebanc, killed and planted after I'd left. And just part
of that note was mine. The confession stuff was forged in by our blonde
comrade."

The Divisional Commander sat back. "Lebanc, or Carroll, is being
shipped back for trial and punishment on Earth," he said. "Under the
circumstances, the Legion can make one of its rare exceptions and
release you two from service. You can return to Earth at any time you
like."

The two brothers looked at one another. Clark, bloody and weary; Ricky
ragged and battle grimed. They exchanged grins.

Outside, the siren bugle, cool in the silence around Cepani, sounded the
mellow notes of "All Clear."

The Divisional Commander looked back at them.

"Hell, Sir," Clark and Ricky declared in one voice, "we're just
beginning to enjoy our enlistments!"


[The end of _Squadron of the Dammed_ by David Wright O'Brien]