Wherever he turned men hunted him; this
was not surprising since he held the key to a
secret men would kill for. Yet some believed—
YOU CAN'T BUY ETERNITY!
By Dwight V. Swain
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1957
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CHAPTER I
HUNT THE MAN DOWN!
The carrier came first—a flimsy two-passenger craft, unsuited foreven the shortest of interplanetary jumps.
Swooping down too fast out of the eternal dust-clouds that shrouded theVenusian sky, it crested a hillock by such a narrow margin as to spraysand high into the never-ending wind, then veered right in a crazy arc.
Another hillock. The carrier struck it a glancing blow that churnedup new clouds of sand and dust as it skated diagonally down the slopebeyond.
Ahead, jutting from the endless waste of powdery grit that stretched asfar as eye could see, loomed low outcroppings of fantastically-erodedrock.
The carrier plowed into them with a rending crash. Claw-like cragsgouged at the craft's thin metal skin. A hiss of escaping air playedsudden gusty counterpoint to the whistle of the wind. Line-weldspopped. Seams split. Bucking and shuddering, the carrier jolted to ahalt.
Before the echoes could even die, then, the cowling-seal flipped loosefrom its seat. The warped entrance-bubble lifted jerkily, wrenched upan inch or two at a time.
Barely half open, it halted. A man wearing a plastron breather-masksquirmed through the slot and, falling, sprawled prostrate in theshifting sands beside the tiny vessel.
But now a new sound echoed overhead—the heavy vibrance of aspaceship's ramping-drone.
Sobbing for breath, the man beside the carrier moved convulsively,then lurched to his knees. His chrysolite-green tunic was ripped widewhere it had caught on the cowling. A long gash above his left templestained dun-drab hair scarlet. His nose was bleeding, too, so that thetransparent breather-mask bubbled spreading ruby streaks every time hesucked in air.
Now, clutching at the carrier's shattered hull, he dragged himself tohis feet, stood swaying there.
Simultaneously, the vibrance overhead echoed louder. A sleek-lined,compact Grade IV short-range cruiser plummeted into view through thedust-clouds and hovered momentarily in ramping position—base down,tail fins parallel to the surface of the ground below.
The face of the man from the carrier contorted behind thebreather-mask. Turning sharply, he lurched away from the wrecked craft,wading calf-deep through the powdery Venusian dust towards another,larger outcropping of eroded rock.
But as he did so, the cruiser dropped with swift precision. Thebalancing fins bit in atop a level dune near where the crippled carrierlay. Gears ground. A hatch spun swiftly outward on its screw-locks.
The man on the ground broke into a stumbling run.
From the cruiser, an amplifier blared harsh male syllables: "Halt, youchitza!" And then: "Pull up, rack you! Freeze! You know you can't getaway!"
The runner scrambled over a low ledge, then on again. He gave no signhe'd even heard.
"You want a blast, huh, Thigpen? You want to go back with your legsknotted up like