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Read Ebook: Beyond the Yellow Fog by McDowell Robert Emmett Rubimor Illustrator
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Ebook has 716 lines and 23792 words, and 15 pages
Beyond The Yellow Fog
"It is the little death," they whispered. "When that yellow mist starts creeping, you'll wish you were dead, sir." Gavin Murdock, hardened manhunter, coldly eyed the evil miasma rising through the mystery spaceship and braced himself for unguessable horror....
The Martian sniffed. "Frankly, Mr. Murdock, your account of yourself is laconic to say the least."
Gavin Murdock grunted, his eyes wary and unblinking. He didn't reply.
The Martian raised his eyes from the documents spread on his glassite desk. He gave the sandy-haired Murdock a shrewd penetrating glance and smiled dryly.
"Of course, we get very few men in the slave trade who care to talk about themselves. We take that into consideration, Mr. Murdock. But an astro-engineer of your talents...." He glanced again at the papers on his desk.
Murdock's pulse hammered suddenly in his throat. He swallowed dryly, but he still didn't interrupt.
"Blacklisted," Mr. Murdock said succinctly. "Belted the old man in the nose. I've been on the beach here in Venusport ever since. None of the shipping lines'll touch me." He lapsed into silence again.
The Martian drummed long white fingers on the desk top.
"What d'you expect me to do?" Murdock interrupted with a wry expression. He was a tall angular man in his early thirties. "Rot here on Venus? I'm not thrilled at taking a third's rating aboard a Jovian slaver. But it's a job."
The Martian still hesitated, doubt registering on his paper-white, sharply-chiseled features.
But he made no move to do so.
Gavin Murdock stiffened imperceptibly, an alarm pealing in his brain. The Martian, he sensed, was stalling. For what?
The space patrols, Murdock knew, had been making things plenty hot for the slavers. The Empire had outlawed the slave trade three years ago. Her spacers were stamping out the traffic in Jovian Dawn Men which flowed between Jupiter and Venus where slavery was still legalized. Decadent the Empire might be, but she still controlled space. Any slaver caught with his half-human cattle beyond Venus' thousand mile limit was treated as a pirate.
The Martian was saying, "You understand, Mr. Murdock, there's no regular salary connected with this job, but as third assistant-engineer you'll be entitled to a one-twentieth share of the profits of each voyage."
Gavin nodded. His glance flicked about the blank walls. He felt suddenly like an animal in a trap.
The offices of Josiah Cabot, slaver, of whom the Martian was the business representative in Venusport, were on the eighty-seventh floor, well up in the swirling cloud blanket which sheathed the second planet like a glove. The offices were windowless and sound-proof. With an effort, Gavin put down the panic rising in his throat. It was ridiculous to think they could do anything to him in a modern office building here in Venusport.
A buzzer on the desk whirred. The Martian leaned forward and snapped a switch. A girl's voice said, "There's a call for you on the televisor, Mr. Trev. It's the--"
"Switch it to the radiophone," the Martian interrupted. He picked up the phone. "Trev speaking."
Gavin could hear the metallic rattle of a voice in the old fashioned instrument.
Trev said, "Yes ... yes ... thank you," at intervals, and hung up. His black eyes were inscrutable. He turned back to Gavin, saying, "I've been waiting for that call, Mr. Murdock."
He brought his hand into sight above the desk. Gavin Murdock found himself staring into the muzzle of a wicked poisoned-needle automatic!
"Clasp your hands behind your neck, Mr. Murdock. That was United Spaceways. They have no record of your ever having been employed by them. That was a very foolish lie, Mr. Murdock. Please submit yourself to a search."
Gavin drew a long breath. "You can save yourself the trouble. The discharge is forged. I haven't had a ship in three years."
"Stand up."
Gavin unfolded himself awkwardly and rose to his full six feet, two inches. He was clad in plain gray shorts and blouse. A Terran of Scotch-American descent, his face was thin, hollow-cheeked, freckled. His sandy hair had been close-cropped in the military fashion. His pale blue eyes were as bright and restless as a hawk's. He had a thin, arched nose, a tight-lipped mouth and a square jaw. He made no attempt to protest further.
The Martian came around the desk to approach Gavin from behind and jam the needle gun against his back. "Don't move!"
"Hell," said Gavin, "I'm not even breathing."
He heard the panel, which led into the outer office, squeak as it was slid back. A new voice asked, "What's the trouble, Trev?" It was a cold, clipped voice, yet the words were strangely blurred.
Gavin could feel his palms grow damp against the back of his neck. He wanted to whip around, but the Martian still had the dart-gun clamped against his spine.
Trev said, "No trouble, Captain Cabot."
Gavin turned his head slowly in the direction of the voice. He saw a tall man with a lean wolfish face. The man, in handsome black shorts, was standing in the doorway to the outer office, one hand braced against the frame. Just behind the man, peering wide-eyed over his shoulder, was a girl.
"Don't allow us to disturb you," said the man and, waving his companion inside, closed the door. He came stiffly, a little unsteadily, around in front and seated himself in Trev's chair. He was drunk, Gavin realized, drunk as a lord. The girl stood against the wall.
"Not at all, Captain Cabot," said Trev to the newcomer, in a faintly sarcastic voice. "After all it's for your own protection." He patted Gavin's chest, found a small flat dart-gun no larger than a deck of cards. It was secured in a delicate spring clip--strapped beneath his left arm.
"Lethal toy for a legitimate spaceman to be carting around," observed the Martian. "Hand tailored, isn't it?"
When Gavin didn't reply, he added, "He's wearing a plastic dart-proof vest too."
The Captain frowned. "What's the trouble, Trev?"
Trev said, "Mr. Murdock, here, applied for the job as third assistant-engineer on your ship with a forged discharge from United Spaceways. United Spaceways never heard of him."
"Hmmm," said Cabot.
The Martian's long questing fingers continued the search. He discovered Gavin's money belt, unbuckled it, tossed it to the Captain.
"Who do you think he is?" asked Cabot in that faintly blurred voice.
"I don't know," replied Trev. "Take a look in his money belt."
The Captain, frowning in concentration, unzipped the pockets with painful care. They held four hundred interplanetary credits, but that was all.
Without commenting, Trev began to turn Gavin's pockets inside out, bringing to light coins, cigarettes and a lighter.
"What are these?" The Martian came around in front again. He threw a pair of brass knuckles to the desk top.
"Knucks," explained Gavin with a tight grin. "Antiques. But I've a fondness for 'em. Silent. Efficient."
Trev regarded them with distaste. The Captain, on the contrary, looked interested. Gavin couldn't see how the girl reacted as she was sitting almost out of his angle of vision.
"Who are you?" the Martian asked Gavin bluntly.
"You've got my papers there on the desk. Only the discharge is faked."
"You said you hadn't had a ship in three years. Why?"
"The Commission suspended my license for a year."
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