Mack Reynolds: Amazon Planet

He came out onto the roof.

Across from him, a man—it was Zeke!—was peering over the roofs edge, down into the street, and bringing up a short barrelled scrambler.

Ronny burned a hole in him through which he could have rammed his arm. Zeke tumbled forward, and a moment later the sound of his body, thudding on the street below, came back. And with it, a crash of splintered wood. Evidently, Matt was on his way in.

Ronny grunted, even as he vaulted the low parapet which separated the two houses. He hurried over to the patio edge and looked down. For the moment, he could see no one below. But even as he began to look up, to locate the stairway, two figures came running from a side-room, dragging at handguns holstered at their sides.

He brought his own weapon up to eye level and squeezed off with care. They toppled over, all but cut in two.

The stairs were in approximately the same position as they had been in the house he had just come through. He scurried over to them, instinctively bent low, as men run when under fire.

He burst the door open and started down.

Half way up the stairs an unknown, seemingly weaponless, his eyes wide in fear, shot a terrified look up at him. Ronny didn’t lose pace. The other toppled over backward when he shot the right side of his head completely away. He was on the second floor now. He ran completely around it, spotting nothing. The doors were all closed. He could hear the sounds of Matt Halloday’s activities going on below.

Flinging his shoulder against the last door, Ronny let his momentum take him far into the center of the room. He spun, his gun sweeping. There was nobody present.

Back into the hall, still at full pace. He took the next room, duplicated his maneuver. The room was empty, but there was a refresher connected with it. He kicked the door open. A man stood in the auto-shower, evidently unaware of the noises in the building, due to the sound of pressured water. At sight of Ronny, he attempted to scramble in the direction of his clothes. Ronny cut him down mercilessly, turned and was gone before the nude bather hit the floor.

Back into the hall, still running.

He bashed down the next door. On the bed, bound and gagged, was Pat O’Gara. He didn’t even take the time to grin at her. He was out in the hall again.

This time the next door but one flew open and two men, guns in hand, came running out.

He used the Model H weapon as though it was a hose. He had seen them first.

He kicked in the remaining door on that floor. The room was empty. He headed for the stairs again. Below, there was a shambles. He nearly tripped over one body as he headed for the patio.

There he found Matt Halloday, struggling to keep on his feet. With his left hand, the Section G operative was holding the stump of his right arm, severed near the elbow.

“Two of them, one of them Sarpedon, heading for the back. They’ll finish that poor Podner yoke.”

Ronny shot an agonized look at his colleague, even as he dashed by. Matt was fated to bleed to death in minutes.

There were sounds ahead of him, offering the direction of his way. Gun at the ready, he sped toward them. He met the two returning, their guns held ready too.

Ronny Bronston dropped flat, gun hand extended, trigger tight back. The hallway flew apart.

He stumbled to his feet again, pressed ahead, stumbling through gore, his legs wet with blood. He burst out onto the boat landing.

There were no boats there. Over to his right, Podner Bates was wavering a gun at him.

“It’s me!” Ronny barked. “Did any get away?”

“No,” Podner yelled shrilly, his voice on the edge of cracking.

“Where’re the boats?”

“I…I sank.them all with the gun when I heard all the noise.”

Ronny shook his head at him, in admiration. “All right, come on. I’m afraid Matt’s had it.” Without waiting for the actor, he turned and headed back, already feeling the trembling that invariably hit him after extreme action. He mustn’t let the nausea hit him. Matt had to be taken care of—if it wasn’t too late.

The other Section G operative was sprawled in the garden, ludicrously crushing a bed of the largest pansies Ronny Bronston had ever seen. Ronny dropped his gun and fell to his knees before the wounded man. He rolled him over roughly. To his relief, the severed arm was partially cauterized and bleeding comparative little. He wondered as he worked, what sort of weapon had hit the other.

He heard Podner Bates coming up behind and called over his shoulder, “Something I can make a tourniquet from. Quick, you damned cloddy!”

Bates scrambled around, and returned in seconds with a torn piece of cloth and a stick.

Ronny worked over the fallen man desperately. Podner came back again, a large piece of torn tunic in his hands, part of the cloth bloody.

“Here,” he said, a bandage.”

Ronny utilized it, then sat back on his heels. He pulled in a double lungful of air. He said finally, “Pat O’Gara’s up in that room, one door from the left. Top of the stairs. You better go get her, she’s probably scared to death.” There was no response and he looked up.

The actor was looking greenish about the gills. There were three bodies, in various stages of disintegration, strewn about the patio. The sickening stench of warm blood and flesh was everywhere.

Ronny said, “All right, I’ll go. Watch Matt.”

This time his progress up the stairs was slow. His feet dragged. Why had he bothered to worry about Podner’s delicacy? He was as near complete collapse himself. Day was coming to an end. The last twenty-four hours had been the most filled in his life.

He pushed the door open and made his way to her bed. He sat down on the edge of it and laboriously began to untie her. He took the gag out last.

Her eyes had been wide on him, taking in the blood on his legs, splattered on his tunic. He felt like an unskilled laborer in a slaughterhouse—and evidently looked and smelled like one. He was too tired to care.

She began to blurt something.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “You’re all right. You’re safe.” He stood again and stumbled toward the room’s refresher.

The door opened before he reached it and a man stepped out. There was a Model H gun in his hand and it was leveled at Ronny’s stomach. There was a sardonic smile on the other’s face.

“Supervisor Bronston, I assume. The fair-haired boy of Sid Jakes and Ross Metaxa.”

Ronny’s own gun was out in the garden where he had dropped it while attending Matt.

He licked dry lips and said wearily, “Damon Kane.”

“That’s right. Like the Northwest Mounties of legend, you seem to have fouled everything up in the nick of time, you funcker.”

Ronny looked at him and shook his head, wearily. Even this emergency couldn’t get through his accumulated weariness. He had been going practically all last night and all today into dust, at the top peak of his resources. He hadn’t even completely recovered from his hangover of this morning. He was through.

“Why not get it over?” he said.

“Why not?” the Section G renegade snarled. “You’ve flunked this, Bronston. I don’t know how many of my Palermo men you’ve finished off—”

“All of them,” Ronny grunted. “Get it over with, Kane.”

“…but I’ve still got all the nucleus I need among the Amazonians. I’ll make a report over my communicator to Sid Jakes, in your name, that’ll have Section G here with in weeks. And when they pull down this phoney socioeconomic system, don’t think I won’t build a new one to my own specifications. We’ll take this planet like Grant took…” As he talked, his finger tightened on the trigger.

And suddenly the gun exploded, blasting his chest and lower face into nothingness, sending him reeling back into the refresher room from which he had emerged.