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

Back in the flyer, always keeping a watchful eye on his captive, Tom checked over the machine. It was one of the police craft maintained by the government at Station Number One for emergency calls and was built for speed and intricate maneuvers, a fighting ship.

It was equipped with four guns, one a projector of the Allison heat ray, and the other three rapid fire guns.

Everything seemed in perfect condition.

“How did you capture these machines?” asked Tom. The police were not often caught napping and they were fighters of renown.

“Our plans were well laid, master,” said the Martian blandly.

Tom snorted. They must have been well laid, he thought. According to this fellow’s story, Mercury had at one stroke fallen into the hands of the Martians, who had used the stupid Moon men as mere pawns to crush the Terrestrial rule.

“What about firearms?” he asked. “How does it happen you tackled me with clubs? Are there no pistols on board?”

“It was all very confusing,” explained the Martian, “Tars Kors and I were only to capture the flyer and bring it here to meet the men from Station Number Nine. Undoubtedly, if they had come, they would have brought firearms.”

“And what do you fellows plan to do now that you have momentarily conquered Mercury?”

The Martian spread six claw-like hands.

“A start, master, just a start. We plan to establish independence.”

“A hell of a fat chance you have,” Tom informed him. “Don’t you know that only a few hours will bring a flight of fighters that will wipe out every one of you.”

The Martian smiled crookedly.

“But, master,” he used the word with faint sarcasm, “it is not only Mercury.”

Tom started.

“You scum! Do you mean—”

“Everywhere, at the same hour, the Martian struck, aided by the other races you have enslaved. On Mars, on Earth, on Venus, on every planet and satellite—”

“Enough,” screamed Tom. “Another word out of you and I’ll wring your filthy neck. You poor fools! You would try to conquer the masters!”

“Yes, master,” said the Martian.

Tom leaped at the man and his fist, lashing out like a whip, smashed squarely into the leering, yellow, wart-covered face. The Martian spun like a top, slipping and sliding across the metal floor, to crash with a thud into a corner.

With feet spread far apart, Tom glared at the Martian.

“Get into that seat,” he snarled, pointing to the pilot’s chair, “and do exactly what I tell you. If you pull one boner I’ll chop you to bits with this sword.”

The terrified Martian scrambled out of the corner and scuttled for the seat.

“Now, listen to me,” said Tom, “there are at least ten other machines that you rats have stolen. We are out to get them. We are going to wipe out as many Martians and Moon men as we can before it’s all over with us. You and I are going to do that—you and I—do you understand? We are going to be avengers—”

The Martian half rose out of his seat, but Tom struck him with his open palm and he again collapsed into it.

“If we get out of this,” Tom told him, “I’ll swear that you stuck by me, that you still were faithful. I’ll recommend you for special privileges. Do you understand?”

The Martian nodded.

“If you fail me, however, I’ll finish you myself. Now start her up and get out of here. Fly straight ahead until I tell you to do something else. Remember I am right behind you at the gun controls and your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel to me.”

The Martian kicked the starter and the rocket motors came to life. With a roar the machine shot forward, taking off easily and smoothly.

In a few minutes the shining dome of Station Number Eight loomed on the horizon.

As the flyer swept down over the dome, Tom saw a plane resting before one of the locks. Close beside it stood a car, which was disgorging figures clad in metal suits. Another car lumbered out of the air locks and made for the plane, upon which was emblazoned the Martian symbol. The victors were transporting their forces to the stolen plane.

Swiftly he spun a wheel and through the range finders saw the plane outlined against the cross-hairs. But before he could touch the lever which released the heat ray, the floor tilted sickeningly beneath his feet.

Whirling from the gun controls he leaped at the Martian.

“Put her up,” he shouted. When his command was not obeyed he struck a single blow, knocking the pilot out of the seat.

Through the observation window he glimpsed the ground rushing up at him. The sturdy little ship groaned in every joint as he put it up sharply, missing the ground by only a few feet. The rocket exhausts roared louder as the ship charged upward at a tremendous speed.

The Martian lay huddled at the foot of a locker, dead to the world. Tom had not pulled the punch which had spun the helpless one out of the pilot’s chair.

At a mile altitude Tom leveled off the ship and nosed it slightly downward. Far below him the Martian ship was taking off. Just above the horizon he glimpsed the dome of Station Nine, which he had quitted a few hours before.

Tom again put the ship up. There was no sense in attempting to fight. He could not pilot the machine and handle the guns at the same time.

He cursed the silent figure on the floor. If the blasted fool had only stuck to his job. Nevertheless, one could hardly blame the fellow. It wasn’t natural to fight your own. Probably, under similar circumstances, he would have done the same.

Through a port he saw the Martian plane far behind, following rapidly. The emblem of the Earth on the nose of his machine must have been sighted.

He went back to the controls and advanced the little plane to top speed. With his lighter load he might be able to outdistance the Martian machine.

Over the horizon loomed the dome of Station Seven and a few minutes later Station Six swung into view. Stations Five and Four were past and the Martian plane was falling far behind.

Another dome appeared ahead of the racing flyer. Above it hung a huge silver ship, which Tom recognized as the transport from Station One.

As he watched, the dome, lying directly beneath the transport, crumbled, falling in upon itself, a cloud of dust rising slowly.

The Martians, having captured the transport, were using the huge heat ray machine aboard to destroy the domes. It seemed their purpose to destroy every work of man on the planet.

Red rage rising in him, Tom leaped to the gun controls, moved the ray nozzle to point straight down, shoved the release lever over and locked it in position.

Back at the pilot controls he threw the ship down in a long dive, straight over the transport. Passing directly over the ship the ray would slice it in two—halt further destruction of the domes. The ray machines on the smaller planes, he knew, were not large enough to touch the huge quartz structures.

With the speed indicator pressed against the pin, the machine flashed down, the ray streaming beneath it.

Tom brought the plane to an even keel and almost as the transport disappeared beneath the machine, he heard a faint click.

Beside the gun controls stood the Martian, his hand still upon the ray lever. He supported himself by gripping the iron railing which ran around the control board. The effects of the blow had not totally left him. He was evidently still dizzy, but the half smile on his repulsive features told Tom he had reached the controls in time to save the transport.

For a moment the two stood eye to eye, then Tom’s hand went back to the hilt of the sword and jerked the blade free. There was not a word spoken.

At the sight of the blade in Tom’s hand, the Martian seemed to come to life. He leaped away from the gun control and ran toward the end of the ship. The Terrestrial dived after him.