Mack Reynolds - Dawnman Planet

He came to a large door guarded by two huskies in elaborate uniform, muffle-guns at their sides.

He wrenched at the doorknob, miscalculated and ripped it completely off.

Ronny snarled an obscenity, stepped back and flicked his beam gun up again. He repeated the process of cutting a circular hole large enough to pass his body, and then pushed the panel through. When there was space to see, he realized he had found what he sought. The Baron Wyler, standing at a table, a dozen men, mostly uniformed, also about it.

He pushed harder on the slowly falling panel, finally had the space to squeeze through. The Baron was standing, mouth closed, looking down the arch of his aristocratic nose at one of his subordinates who was speaking, his finger touching a chart. At least, he had been speaking at the moment of the freeze—his mouth was open. And remained so, though no sound issued forth during Ronny’s stay.

Ronny Bronston darted to the table. He stared down at the paper the other was touching. It was a star chart, but not, he realized, the one that could possibly have helped in the location of the Dawnworlds. It was a chart of United Planets.

Ronny sorted through the papers on the table, frantically. On the face of it, these men were discussing the broad subject of the Baron’s designs against UP. If so, the subject of the Dawnworlds was obviously in mind.

But there was no other chart. Plans, reports, graphs, diagrams of this, that and the other. But no further charts.

He stepped over to the frozen statue that was Baron Wyler and ran his hands over him. He went through every pocket, examined, however briefly, every paper. The other’s body felt like clammy clay, there was a nauseating element in making physical contact with a living object under these conditions.

There was nothing pertaining to the Dawnworlds.

For the briefest of moments, he wondered if it were all a hoax. Was the wily Baron planting the idea that he was in contact with this fabulous unintelligent race with the idea of bluffing the UP into accepting him as supreme? But no, the bluff might work with some, but hardly with others. Such planets as Delos were going to have to be shown something tangible before knuckling under to a Baron Maximilian Wyler.

Ronny Bronston’s eyes began to dart around the room, inspecting the Baron’s underlings. Which, of them all, might be expected to carry a star chart, pinpointing the Dawnman worlds? He simply didn’t have time to search them all. The only one he recognized was the self-effacing Count Fitz-james, who, characteristically, was back away from the others, as though not wishing to intrude.

He grabbed energy pills from his jacket and munched on them. He had to think. No matter how desperate for time, he had to think.

He had been in this room already so long that he could note a slight change in the Baron’s eyes. They had begun to widen a merest trifle, the first indication of surprise.

Then, as though magnet drawn, the Section G agent’s attention whipped back to Count Fitzjames. What was the other doing over there, away from the others? Something hadn’t at first registered on Ronny’s awareness.

Yes! The oldster was looking at a… a map. No! It was a chart, a star chart. Ronny whipped over. Attached there to the wall.

Phrygia was heavily marked, down in this corner. Over here, surprisingly near, were the three star systems of the originally discovered tiny aliens. And beyond, all those numberless stars in red! They could only be…

Whether or not he was right, Ronny had no more time. No more time. He reached out and ripped the chart from the wall. Swore at himself for tearing it badly. Carefully and slowly pulled it down, folding it, so he could carry it more easily.

He spun and dashed for the door he had blasted through, slowed somewhat by the resistance of the object he carried. He wedged himself into the corridor beyond. The panel he had cut out had not as yet dropped all the way to the floor; in fact, was not more than an inch or so lower than when he had finished shoving it.

In the corridor, the guards were beginning to react somewhat as had the Baron. Their eyes had begun to widen in shocked surprise.

He hurried down the hall, retracing his steps. To the elevator. Through the roof of the cage, up the ladder. As he went he desperately swallowed his energy pills, desperately crammed them down.

The ground floor could be no more than a few stories up, but he felt himself tiring. He was weary with the activity. He had been moving at top speed since Phil had pulled the hovercar up before the entry. And he could feel it now.

At least, that is what he told himself he was feeling.

He refused the fear that was welling up inside. How long, how long?

He pulled himself at last through the hole he had burned in the heavy elevator door at the ground floor. He began to drag himself along the way to the entry, the ramp, Phil’s hovercar and release. The star chart he carried grew increasingly sluggish, impossibly heavy.

And even as he went, he knew he wasn’t going to make it.

The energy was draining out of him with every step. He had taken too much time. He had taken far too much time.

He went down on his knees, the star chart falling slowly from his hands, then remaining suspended in the air. He laboriously took it again. He had to make it to the hovercar. He stumbled forward. It was far too far.

He was too weak even to bring more pep pills to his mouth. The last few he had taken had had little effect, at any rate. His body had taken all the punishment it was capable of taking. He wasn’t going to make it.

This, then, was the ultimate failure.

He looked up in agony, down the long corridor that led in the direction of the ramp. The occupants of the hall were still frozen in their movements. For him, they would always be frozen. But…

He saw movement!

Down the hall toward him came running Phil Birdman, his eyes going in all directions.

He spotted Ronny, grabbed down at him, hoisted him over his shoulder and started back.

Ronny held on to consciousness. He didn’t understand, but it was going to work out now. He held desperately to the chart.

They were back in the hovercar. The Indian operative dumped him into the passenger seat, hurried around to the other side and vaulted into the driver’s position. His hand darted to the dash compartment and seized two syrettes. He pressed the first into his own neck, the second into Ronny’s.

Things began jerking frantically. Things began moving sluggishly. The people. The guards.

The guard officer, who had been walking toward them when time had first stopped, began moving more naturally, faster, and still faster.

Scowling, he barked, “What’s going on here?”

Phil Birdman said apologetically, “Sorry, officer. I seem to have ascended the wrong ramp.”

“You certainly have! This is the private entry of the Supreme Commandant! What’s going on here? You men look suspicious.”

The Phrygian stared at Ronny Bronston. “What’ve you got there in your hand? You didn’t have anything just a second ago.”

It was the star chart.

Ronny shook his head, weakly. “Nothing. I… I feel sick. Let’s go on back, Birdman.”

“Yes, get out of here,” the guard officer rapped. He was scowling, obviously wondering whether or not to arrest this pair.

Phil Birdman had never dropped the lift lever. Now he applied pressure to the velocity pedal, tipped the stick to the left and back, and spun the vehicle to descend the ramp again.

Ronny fumbled for a sandwich, gobbled it. Got it down and felt like retching. There was a bottle with a score of assorted pills. He got them all down, drank deeply from a flask of water. He was dehydrated, weak, empty.