Mack Reynolds - Dawnman Planet

They were speeding toward the gate through which they had entered mere moments ago by straight time.

The gate was closing. The guards were milling about, anxiously. Four or five barred the way, spears raised.

Spears raised as though they were rifles, and it came to Ronny Bronston that appearances deceive. The Baron Wyler wasn’t about to arm his guards with nothing more effective than iron tipped wooden shafts. Those spears were undoubtedly disguised weapons demanding of considerably more respect.

“Blast through!” Ronny clipped to his companion. Phil shot a glance at him. “If I do, we’ll have the paleface cavalry after us in moments.”

“We’ve got them after us already. What d’ya think they’re closing those gates for?”

The Indian’s hand shot out, flicked a switch. Part of the dash fell away to reveal a pistol grip built into the car. Phil Birdman grabbed it, touched the trigger, slowly swerved the car right and left.

The gate and the soldiers that guarded it melted away into nothingness.

The two Section G agents felt nausea. It was seldom one took human life, even in the ultra-dedicated Bureau of Investigation.

They shot through what had once been the gate and down the road toward the city limits of Phrygia.

Ronny growled, “They’ll be after us both in the air and on the road. Chances are, we’ll never make it halfway.”

“It’s getting dark,” Birdman muttered. “Not that that’ll make much difference. You got the location of the Dawnman planets?”

“I think so.” Ronny wolfed another sandwich. “Listen, how did you ever find me? What was the idea? How could you do it?”

Birdman grunted. “I pressed my syrette a split second after you did. I was gambling that my metabolism wouldn’t be hit until you had already been gone long enough to do what you could. I figured that you’d probably keep going, long after you’d passed the danger point, if you hadn’t found what we needed. I figured I’d be going into pseudo-time, just in time to come looking for you.”

He added apologetically, “It was all I could do. Of course, I was in pseudo-time only a fraction of the duration you were. I doubt if it makes more than a year or two difference.”

“You cloddy!” Ronny growled. “Well, thanks.” He knew well enough Phil would have kept coming, looking for him, no matter how much time had elapsed.

“All for dear old Section G,” Phil said cheerfully. “Listen, I can hear them behind us. We’ll never make it.”

“Keep going,” Ronny muttered. “I’m beginning to feel the immediate after-effects.”

“Oh fine,” the Indian operative said. “You haven’t got a communicator on you?”

“No, of course not. We couldn’t take the chance of the Baron getting hold of one of us and finding the thing. He’d be able to tap Section G communications.”

The dash screen let up. There was the face, the icy face of an officer in the uniform of Baron Wyler’s personal guards.

The officer snarled, “You have exactly two minutes in which to come to a halt and surrender. Otherwise, we blast. You are not going to be allowed to reach Phrygia city limits. The Supreme Commandant’s orders.”

Ronny flicked the screen off. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “Can you think of anything?”

“All I can think of,” Phil said expressionlessly, “is that we should have taken my earlier idea. Go down to the recruiting station and join up with the Baron.”

“Too late now.” Ronny grunted. “We’ve taken our stand. Look out, here comes a car toward us from the city.”

“Probably a civilian,” the Indian muttered. “There hasn’t been time for security guards to be coming from that direction.”

“Wait a minute!” Ronny said urgently. “I know that car. Stop.”

The Indian shot a quick glance at him, but jammed on deceleration.

Ronny waved at Rita Daniels.

“Hey!“ he called.

She came to a halt, her high forehead furrowed.

“What’re you doing out there?” she asked. “I thought you were in town thinking over Uncle Max’s proposition.”

He was feeling increasingly weak, but he climbed from Birdman’s hovercar and made his way to hers, fumbling as he went for his gimmicked fountain pen.

He said, “Look. I want to talk to you. Come along with us.”

Her eyes narrowed. She could hear the sounds of the pursuing guard vehicles. “Not likely,” she snapped. “What’re you up to?”

He lifted the stud of the device and turned to call weakly to Birdman. “Get the Baron on the screen. Soonest, damn it!”

He turned back to the girl. She was scratching her cheek where the tiny dart had struck her, and already her eyes were going blank.

“Come along with me, Rita,” he ordered. Without bothering to see if she followed, he staggered back to the other hovercar.

Phil Birdman had managed to get through. Evidently, Baron Wyler had been stationed at a screen waiting for a report from his guards on the progress of the chase. His face was on the screen.

Ronny Bronston slumped into his seat, the drugged girl climbed in next to him, the slim figure warm but unnoticed against his side.

He said weakly, “We’ve got your niece, Uncle Max. She’s going with us into Phrygia.”

The Baron’s face was blazing with anger. “Have you supposed altruists of Section G stooped to abducting helpless women and using them as hostages to protect your miserable selves?”

“You have said it, friend,” Phil Birdman said flatly. He kicked the acceleration pedal with his foot, switched off the screen again to prevent the other from following their conversation.

Ronny Bronston had been hanging on to consciousness with considerable effort. Now he gave up.

Ronny came to, weakly, in the hideaway the Indian operative had made in the suburban housing area of the Phrygian capital. Evidently, Phil had just given him a draught of something highly stimulating.

“How’d you ever make it?” Ronny murmured.

Phil grinned down at him. Bronston was stretched out on a couch. “Ugh. Redman have no trouble shaking pursuing palefaces in confusion of big city traffic.”

“Funnies, I get,” Ronny muttered. “Where’s the girl?”

“She’s with us. Our strongman isn’t as strong as he ought to be, if he’s thinking in terms of taking over whole empires of planets. He should have figured her expendable.”

Ronny said, before passing out again, “Get the Old Man.”

Phil Birdman went over to the desk and set up the Section G communicator. He said into it, “Irene Kasansky, soonest.”

Her tight face faded in, her expression worried. “Phil Birdman,” she said, “what’s going on?”

“Give me the Chief, Irene. Absolutely soonest.”

“He and Jakes are waiting for your report.”

Metaxa’s acid sour face faded in. “Birdman!” he growled. “What’s happened to Ronny Bronston?”

The Indian said, “I’ve got him here. He’s out.” He had an edge of bitterness in his voice now. “He took your orders literally, of course. The only way of getting that information was for him to go into pseudo-time.”

Ross Metaxa stared at him, unblinkingly. “How long was he under?”

“Evidently maximum. He probably set some sort of record.”

The Section G head allowed himself to close his eyes for the briefest of seconds. He took a deep breath and said, “Did he get the information from that funker?”

“I think so. He brought a star chart away with him.” Phil Birdman cleared his throat. “We also have a hostage. The Baron’s niece.”

Ross Metaxa assimilated that, not bothering to ask for details. He said, finally, “Have you any manner of getting out into space?”