Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

The patter of the gun and the whisper of the speeding bullets ceased.

“All right, lad,” cried old McGregor and Tom, leaping to his feet, rushed forward, forgetting his pistol, which lay where it had fallen.

When he was only a matter of a few feet from the old man, who was disengaging a magazine preparatory to slipping another into place, a Martian, followed by two Selenites rushed around the corner of the atmosphere plant.

Before Tom could warn his friend, one of the Selenites hurled a stone, which caught McGregor flush on the temple.

The old man slowly slid from his seat on the gun. The Martian and the two Selenites raced for the door of the atmosphere plant.

Tom leaped after them, forgetful for the moment that he was unarmed. As he sped past old McGregor he noted that the white leonine head rested in a pool of blood and that a death pallor stamped the features.

Cursing under his breath, Tom rushed the three mutineers who were trying by brute force and awkwardness to force the locked door of the plant.

Seeing the Earth-man almost upon them, the two Selenites, trained for years to look upon the Terrestrials as their superiors and masters, momentarily forgot their rebellion and crying out in terror, threw their combined weight against the door. It splintered inward under the impact.

Tom arrived at the doorway just in time to see one of the huge brutes crush young Jacobs to the floor with a savage blow of his fist.

At Tom’s cry of rage the three whirled to face him. The faces of the two Moon men were expressionless except for their beady eyes, which shone with a wild light; the features of the Martian were distorted into the snarl of a cornered beast.

It was then Tom realized he was unarmed. His eyes lighted upon the sword lying on the table to his left. It had been only a few hours ago he had listened to the tale of that very sword from the lips of Jacobs. It was a thrilling tale, a story of the days when men fought hand to hand.

His left hand reached out to clutch the scabbard and as he jerked the steel from its resting place, the three leaped to meet him.

With his back to the table he jabbed at the leading Selenite, to send him reeling backwards, howling with pain and clutching his belly. The point off the blade was red.

The second Moon man momentarily checked his rush and, seizing this opportunity, Tom leaped at him with the sword raised high. The brute tried to dodge, but the steel, fairly whistling through the air, caught him at the juncture of the neck and shoulder, cleaving deep. The Moon man slumped to the floor and the blade came free.

A heavy wrench, thrown by the Martian, missed Tom’s head by a fraction of an inch and crashed into an array of bottles on a shelf against the wall.

“I’m coming to get you,” said Tom, addressing the Martian, and the fellow snarled in hate as he backed across the room before the advance of the Terrestrial.

The remaining Selenite, still clutching his belly, staggered forward to place himself between the Earthman and the Martian. Without ado Tom methodically cut him down with a thrust to the throat.

Stepping over the prostrate body, he advanced on the Martian, who was crouched in a corner of the room.

Then, with his six arms outstretched, fingers hooked like talons about to strike, his fang-rimmed mouth opened wide, the Martian sprang to the attack.

Tom, taken by surprise, sprang back and stumbled over the dead Selenite, sprawling backwards, flat on his back, with the Martian almost on top of him.

He looked straight into the red eyes of his assailant, felt the talon-like fingers on his throat. The fanged mouth poised over his face drooled saliva on his cheek.

With all his strength, Tom brought his clenched left fist up, striking the Martian on the temple. As the grip of the fingers momentarily loosened under the impact of the blow, he threw himself sideways and rolled free of the man above him.

Both men sprang to their feet at the same instant and faced one another.

Tom lifted the sword.

“I surrender, I surrender,” mouthed the Martian, fear in his eyes at the sight of the glistening blade poised to strike.

With a crooked smile on his lips, Tom brought the sword down. The Martian, his eight limbs sprawling grotesquely, sagged to the floor, his head almost severed from his body.

Tom wiped the sword and returned it to the scabbard.

Jacobs was dead. So was McGregor. There was no doubt all of the other Terrestrials, except himself, had likewise been killed.

Standing in the center of the room, he tried to determine his next course.

There were likely a few dozen Moon men and Martians still at the station. They were probably already at their work of destruction, wreaking their foolish vengeance upon the dominant Earth race that forced them to labor in the mines and forests on the several far-flung planets.

He cold-bloodedly considered the situation. First he would arm himself and routing out the last of the mutineers, slay them. Then he would remain until assistance came. Headquarters at Shaft Number One, failing to get messages through, would suspect something amiss and investigate. In a very few hours his plight would be discovered.

The atmosphere plant, even unattended, would function for a few hours, long enough, at least, for the investigating party to arrive.

In a cabinet drawer Tom found a pistol and assuring himself it was loaded, slipped it into his holster.

As he started for the door his attention was arrested by a dial. The needle was swinging crazily. He stared in amazement, then in despair. One of the fools had evidently managed to open one of the air locks in the dome and the atmosphere was rushing out into the almost airless desert. Soon the two atmospheres would be equalized and every man caught without some sort of artificial protection and oxygen generator would be killed.

There was only one thing to do. He must reach one of the cars and escape to Shaft Number Eight, ten miles distant.

As he reached the door he realized he still clutched the sword and was about to drop it, when he made a sudden decision to take it with him. Why, he didn’t know. Perhaps, he told himself with a grin, Jacobs’ family might like it returned if and when he got back to Earth.

Outside, a violent wind, something unknown under the great dome, caught and almost swept him off his feet. It was caused by the air rushing for the open lock.

Bucking the air currents, which buffeted him cruelly, Tom fought his way across the yard to the car shed.

Here he found everything in disorder. Three machines, smashed and dented by some heavy tool, possibly a sledge hammer, met his eye. There had been four cars. One was missing. Evidently a party of the mutineers had smashed the three cars and escaping in the remaining one, had left one of the air locks open. There must have been a Martian or two in the party. The cow-headed Selenites didn’t have the necessary intelligence to open one of the doors, let alone operate a car.

Tom cursed bitterly. In an hour the dome would be atmospherically equal to the desert outside, in which no man could live. Why did those bone-headed officials insist that every mine employ a few Martians? It would have been better to have killed off the entire race.

There was the matter of the cars, too. Why didn’t the company give them light rocket planes instead? Economy again! A car cost about half of what a rocket plane would. What did the square-heads who held down swivel chairs care for the men in these ungodly outposts? Nevertheless, cars or planes, either would have been smashed. His job was to get out of the mess.

The air currents, streaming out of the dome toward the open lock, rattled the loose sheets of galvanized steel on the roof of the shed.