Full text of "Devil's Planet"

See other formats

•ss

VEN

•

PLANE

A Long Book-i
Novel of MorT
Adve-
By MAN

V\
WELLMA

hVl.

*THE BEST IN S C I E NT I F I CTI O N *

Vol. 7, No. I

CONTENTS

January, 1942

A Complete Cook-Length Scientifiction Novel

DEVIL'S
PLANET

By MANLY
WADE WELLMAN

Fresh from Earth, Young Dillon Stover is
Plunged into a Mystery on Mars! Tour Pu-
lambar t the Martian Pleasure City, with this
Intrepid Earthman as Your Guide.

Other Unusual Stories

CHRISTMAS ON GANYMEDE Isaac Asimov 83

The Yuletide Season Brings Turmoil on Jupiter's Moon

THE FITZGERALD CONTRACTION Dr. Miles J. Breuer 94

An Outstanding Classic from Scientifiction's Hall of Fame

GEARS FOR NEMESIS Raymond 2. Galiun 106

There Was Only One Way to Save the Day for the Trail Blazer's Passengers

Special Features

THE ETHER VIBRATES Announcements and Letters 10

THRILLS IN SCIENCE Oscar J. Friend 78

SCIENCE QUESTION BOX Answers to Queries 93

REVIEW OF FAN PUBLICATIONS Sergeant Saturn 126

Cover Painting by Rudolph Belarski— Illustrating DEVIL'S PLANET

STARTLING STOJtlKS, published owry other month by BetlBr Publications, Inc.. N. L. Fines. President, at 4BIM Dlver-

;,, ill and executive offices, 10 £a*t 40tto SL, Now Tort, N. Y. Entered as second ! class

nr 30. 1#3S. at the post office at Chicago. Illinois* under the act of March 8. 1ST9. Copyright. 10*1, K*

Publication?!. Yearly %.'Mt, single copies $.15: foreign and Canadian postage extrn. Manusmpts will mot no

,cl m;i ■ TTTmrnn 4 '"' oy self-addres- miped envelope, and are submitted at the author's risk. Nairn* of all

characters u«i*d in stories and send -fiction articles are Dctitioua. If a name of any living person or existing Institution

is used, it Is a 1mm,

Companion magazines: Thrilling Wonder Storie*, Captain Future, Popular Western, Thrilling Mystery. Thrilling Wcirtern.
Thrilling Detective, Thrllllno Adventures, Thrilling Love. The Phantom Detective. The American (Eaflle, RAF Ami , Sky
Fiohtari. Populnr Detective, Thrllllno Ranch Stories. Thrillino Sports, Popular Sport* Magazine, Range Riders Western,
Texai Rangers. Everyday Aetrolnny. 6-Mon Detective. Detective Novel* Magazine, Black Book Detective, Poou I ar Love.
Masked Rider W attorn, Rio Kid Woit.irn Air War. The Masked Detective, Exciting Detective. Exciting Wwtern. Exert-
ing Love, Papular Football. Thrilling Football, Exerting Football and Watt PRINTED in TLIE u. a. a.

v A

DEVILS PLANET

By MANLY WADE WELLMAN

Author of 'Island in the Sky" "Sojarr of Titan," etc.

"Helpl" Girra called. "My rrobot hass cone out of contrrolt" (Chap. X)

CHAPTER I
Water, Water — Nawhere

YOUNG Dillon Stover woke
easily and good-humoredly, as
usual. He knew he was in bed,
of course — but was he? He felt as
though he were floating on a fleecy
cloud, or something.

He stretched his muscular long legs
and arms, yawned and shook his

tawny-curled head. He felt light as a
feather, even in the first waking mo-
ment. He was alert enough to re-
member now. This was Mars, where
he weighed only forty percent of
what he weighed at home in the Mis-
souri Ozarks. He'd come here to
carry on the scientific labors of his
late grandfather, which labors he'd in-
herited along with old Dr. Stover's
snug fortune. For the first time in
his life Dillon Stover had fine clothes.

—

AN AMAZING COMPLETE BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL

Fresh from Earth/ Young Dillon Stover

independence, money in his belt-
pouch — and responsibility.

That responsibility had brought
him to Pulambar, Martian City of
Pleasure, for study and decision.

He sat up on the edge of his bed,
looking around the sleepiing room.
Its walls were of translucent stuff like
ground glass. Upon them, delicate
as dim etchings, rippled a living pat-
tern of leaves and blossoms that
waved in the wind — a sort of magic-
lantern effect from within, he de-
cided. Such leaves and blossoms had
once existed on Mars, long ago before
the planet began to dry and choke
with thirst.

Somebody looked in. It was Bucka-
lew, his grandfather's old friend, to
whose care Dr. Stover had entrusted
his grandson's Martian wanderings in
a posthumous letter of introduction,

Robert Buckalew was a man of or-
dinary height, slender but well pro-
portioned, with regular, almost deli-
cate features that seemed never to
change expression. Like most so-
ciety sparks whose figures were not
too grotesque, he wore snugly tailored
garments and a graceful mantle. He
looked very young to have been a
friend of Stover's grandfather. His
dark hair was ungrayed, his expres-
sionless face unwrinkled. What kind
of man was Buckalew? But Dr.
Stover had died — suddenly and with-
out indication of the need to die —
and his grandson must trust to that
letter of introduction,

"Good morning/' Buckalew greeted
Stover. "Good afternoon, rather, for
it's a little past noon. Sleep well?**

Again the young man from
Earth stretched, and stood up.
He was taller than Buckalew, crawl-
ing with muscles. He grinned, very
attractively.

4 I slept like a drunkard without a
conscience," he said. "That flight in
from Earth's tiring, isn't it? When
did I get here? Midnight? Thanks
for taking me over like this." He

glanced around, "Am I in some de
luxe hotel ?"

"You're in my guest room," replied
Buckalew. "This is a tower apart-
ment, I'm in what they call the 'High-
tower Set', living 'way above town.
Come to breakfast."

THE meal was served in the parlor,
__ a dome-ceilinged chamber with
rosy soft light and metal chairs that
were as soft as the bed had been. Or
was that more Martian gravity? The
servant was a clanking figure of
nickeled iron with jointed arms and
legs and a bucketlike head with no
face except a dimly glowing light
bulb. Stover had seen few robots at
home on Earth, and he studied this
one intently.

"A marvelous servant," he com-
mented to Buckalew as the metal
creature went kitchenward for more
dishes, "I've never been served bet-
ter."

"Thank your grandfather," replied
Buckalew, who was not eating, per-
haps having had a meal earlier. "Dr.
Stover made all these very success-
ful machine-servitors now in use
throughout Pulambar."

Stover had heard that. But his
grandfather had ceased his robot
building long ago. Why? Perhaps it
was because his latest work, the prob-
lem of the Martian water shortage,
had absorbed him.

"They aren't exactly alive, are
they?" the young man asked Buck-
alew,

Buekalew's dark head shook, rather
somberly. "No. They're only keyed
to limited behavior-patterns. This one
is good for personal service, others
as mechanics' helpers, some of the
best as calculators or clerks. But — "
He broke off. "Where do you want
to go first? I'm at your service, Dil-
lon."

Stover wiped his mouth, "I suppose
that business had better come before
any pleasures. I'm here to look at

Tour Pulambar, the Martian Pleasure City,

Is Plunged Into a Mystery on Mars!

drought conditions. Can you help me

there?"

"Of course." Buckalew went to a
wireless telephone instrument at the
wall. '*Short-shot rocket," he ordered
into it, and led the way out upon the
front balcony.

By bright daylight Stover now saw
Pulambar spread far below the tower
in which Buckalew lived.

Martians built Pulambar long ago
at the apex of that forked expanse of
verdure called Fastigium Aryn by
Earth's old astronomers. Their world

with an Intrepid Earthman as Your Guide!

STARTLING STORIES

was dying in spite of science and toil,
and in a pleasure city the doom might
be forgotten. Pulambar had its foun-
dations in the one lake left on Mars —
canals for streets, open pools for
squares, throngs of motorized gon-
dolas and barges.

This was all the more wondrous
since the rest of the planet fairly
famished for water. Above towered
clifflike buildings of every bright
plastic material, rimmed with walks,
strung with colored lights, balconied
with gardens, spouting music and
glare and gaiety, and crowded with
tourists of all kinds and from all plan-
ets. If the laughter was a trifle hys-
terical, so much the better.

Above this massed roar and chatter
rose towers and spires from the
blocky masses of buildings. Here was
Pulambar's upper segment — Tower
Town, where wealth and society
reigned. A world of its own, as Stov-
er saw it, the highest peaks a good
two miles from ground level and
strung together with a silvery web
of wire walkways and trolley tracks-
Independent of the coarser turmoil
below, it needed no such turmoil, hav-
ing plenty of its own. It had its own
law, sophistication; its own standard,
glitter; its own ruler, bad but bril-
liant. Mace Malbrook.

Of all these things Stover had only
dreamed in the simple and sober sur-
roundings of his boyhood. Orphaned
at six, he had gone to dwell with his
grandfather, the doctor, at the labora-
tory farm in the Ozarks. Study, exer-
cise, health — all those his grand-
father had supervised, making him
into a towering athlete and some-
thing of a journeyman scientist. But
the old man had always discouraged
long jaunts even to such places as
St. Louis, the World Capitol, let alone
to other planets. Well, thought Stov-
er, he was able all the better to savor
the excitement of the great Pleasure
City of Mars.

'•I'm certainly pro-PuIambar," he
said to Buckalew, and he meant it.

"Here's our rocket cab," replied
Buckalew, as a cartridge-shaped ve-
hicle swam to the balcony railing.
They entered the closed passenger
compartment at the rear. "Tour us

over the desert," Buckalew ordered
the pilot through a speaking tube.

AWAY over the complex glitter
of Pulambar they soared, turn*
ing their stern-blasts to the fork of
scrubby vegetation that cuddled the
lake-based city. Beyond and below
Stover could see the desert, rusty red
and blank.

"Looks as if it needs a drink bad,"
he said to Buckalew. "No wonder no-
body lives in it."

"Oh, people live in it," surprisingly
replied Buckalew. "Martians aren't
as numerous as Terrestrials, but
there's not enough good land for what
there are." Again he addressed the
speaking tube: "Pilot, go lower and
slower."

The rocket dipped down. Stover
could see the desert features more
plainly, dunes, draws, expanses of red
sand.
Buckalew pointed.
"You see that dark blotch like mold
down there?" he asked. "It's a sign of
life. Set us down by that hutch,
pilot."

A minute later the cab dropped
gently to the sand. Buckalew and
Stover emerged.

Stover looked curiously at the blist-
erlike protuberance a few yards away.
It rose perhaps five feet from the
sand, and was twice that in diameter.
At first sight it seemed of dull dark
stuff, but then he saw that it was a
semi-transparent shell, with clumpy
vegetation inside.

"Come close," said Buckalew, and
they walked up to the blister. "This
is the desert camp of a Martian."

Inside the hummock grew a single
bush or shrub. Its roots were deep in
the sand, its broad-leafed branches
spread out inside the shell to receive
the sunlight.

Beneath those branches sprawled
what looked something like four big,
limp spiders.
"Martians," said Buckalew.
Stover stared. The few Martians
he had seen on Earth wore braces and
garments to hold them erect in semi-
Terrestrial posture. These, naked and
unharnessed, showed as having soft
bladder-bodies, each with six whip-

DEVIL'S PLANET

like tentacles. Their heads, pink and
covered with petal-like sense organs,
all turned close to the big shrub.
Stover saw that each of the Martians
held a long pipe or tube in its tenta-
cles, one end in the mouth orifice
among the face petals. The other end
of the pipe quested among the leaves
of the shrub.

"They are probing for water to keep
them alive," Buckalew explained.

Then Stover understood. The
shrub's roots, deep and wide in the
sand, drew to themselves all surround-
ing moisture. It concentrated in the
leafage, a droplet at a time, These
wretched creatures sealed the plant
in lest the precious damp be lost by
evaporation.

"Martians make such enclosures
from the glassy silicates in the sand,"
Buckalew was saying. "A Martian
doesn't need much food — a few ounces
of concentrate will last for ever so
long. What they need is a little wa-
ter, and the plant can give that for a
time."

"For a time?" repeated Stover, star-
ing again. "What happens when the
plant's water-production gives out?"

"The Martians die."

"That must happen pretty often,"
said Stover soberly, unconsciously
quoting Through the Looking-Glass*

It may be that Buckalew was de-
liberate in rejoining, from the same
work:

"It always happens."

HE STEPPED close to the sealed
shelter, tapping on it with his
knuckles. A Martian wriggled to-
ward them. Buckalew held up some-
thing he had brought in the rocket —
a clay ware water jug, stoppered care-
fully, holding about two quarts. The
Martian inside made frantic, appeal-
ing gestures.

Buckalew set the jug close to the
foot of the glass wall, and the Martian
burrowed quickly under, snatching it.

Stover turned away, almost shud-
dering, from the sight of all the crea-
tures crowding around that pitiful
container of water.

"We go back now," said Buckalew,
and they re-entered the cab.

Stover was somewhat pale under his

healthy skin.

"This is ghastly," he said at last.
"They have to suck up to that poor
plant — ugh!"

"That is but one little encampment
of many such," Buckalew told him.
"Shall we stop at the fringe of Pulam-
bar when we go back? To see the
water-lines?"

"Water-lines?" repeated Stover.
"Are they like bread-lines used to be
on Earth?"

"Very much like that, Long proces-
sions of wretched poor, coming to get
half-pint rations."

"I don't want to see that," Stover
told him. "Let's get back to some-
thing gay."

"Back to my apartment," Buckalew
told the pilot. To Stover he said:
"Well visit the Zaarr tonight — best
public house in Pulambar."

CHAPTER II
Martian Holiday

ZAARR, in the slurring language
of Mars, means Unattached. The
public house mentioned by Buckalew
was almost what the name implied — a
dome-shaped edifice of silvery alloy,
floating at a fixed point among four
tall towers. From each tower flashed
a gravity-lock beam, like an invisible
girder, to moor the Zaarr in space.
The only way there was by heliocop-
ter, short-shot rocket, or other sky
vehicle.

Admission was by appointment,
costing high.

The table of Stover and Buckalew
was at the raised end of the inner hall.
Below them, the crystal floor revealed
the pageant of Pulambar's lower lev-
els a mile below. A Terrestrial or-
chestra, best in the Solar System,
played in a central pit while brigades
of entertainers performed. Over all,
at the highest point of the dome, hung
a light that changed tint constantly,
a Martian "joy-lamp" whose rays
brought elevated visions to Martians,
and sometimes madness and violence
to Terrestrials.

It would have been more of a treat

STARTLING STORIES

to Stover if he hadn't kept remember-
ing that other dome-shaped structure
he had seen earlier where four
wretched Martian paupers prisoned
themselves to suck miserable life from
the distillations of a poor plant.
Again he wanted to shudder, and beat
down the impulse. He was here to
enjoy himself. Pulambar was the
most exciting spot in the habitable
universe, and the Zaarr it's greatest
focus of fun,

HE CONTRASTED all this with
his familiar Ozark home, white
utilitarian walls* laboratory benches
and surrounding greenery, inhabited
by sober technicians and caretakers.
In the changing joy-light, the guests
seemed the more exotic and pictur-
esque, clad in all colors and rich-
nesses, their hair — male and female —
dressed and curled and often dyed
with gay colors.

No hysterical howl at the Zaarr,
Here was society, restrained even un-
der the joy-lamp. Most of them were
Terrestrials or Terrestrial-descended
Jovians, for such had most of the
money in the System, There was just
a sprinkling of Venusians, and the
only Martian anywhere in sight was
the proprietor, Prrala, over by a
service entrance.

The attendants were robots, great
gleaming bodies with cunning joints
and faces blank save for round white
lamps.

To Dillon Stover, who had never
seen such things, they looked like ani-
mated suits of ancient armor.

"Intriguing to notice," he said to
Buckalew in his gentle voice, "how,
after so many millennia, people still
turn to the same basic items of enter-
tainment — sweet sounds, stimulating
drink or other narcotics, palatable
food, and parades of lovely girls,'' He
eyed with mild admiration the slim,
tawny young woman whp stood on
the brink of the orchestra pit and
sang a farce novelty number about a
rich man who was sick.

"That entertainer," commented
Buckalew, "might fit as well into an
ancient Roman banquet scene, a tour-
nament of song in old Thuringia, or
the New York theatrical world of the

twentieth century. There's been noth-
ing new, my young friend, since the
day before history's dawn."

Stover looked at the girl with more
interest. He replied only because
Buckalew seemed to expect some sort
of a reply.

"That's new, to me at least," he ar-
gued, jerking his head toward the
joylamp. It shot a sudden white beam
to light him up, and he was revealed
as easily the handsomest man of all
those present.

Even sitting, he showed great
length and volume of muscle inside
his close-fitting cloth of gold. His
hair, shorter than fashionable,
gleamed only less golden than his
tunic.

His young face was made strong
by the bony aggressiveness of nose
and jaw. His intensely blue eyes
carried the darkly glowing light of
hot temper in them,

"I'm trying not to let that lamp stir
me up too much," he went on. "It
seems to intoxicate everybody except
you*"

"I'm saturated," retorted Buckalew.
"Well, how will you like to go to
work when this holiday's done?"

"Let work be left out of the present
conversation," Stover pleaded. "I
want complete relaxation and excite-
ment. Tomorrow I'll visit the lower
levels, Mr. Buckalew."

"They get rough down there,"
Buckalew reminded. "Lots of rowdy
customers — space-crews on leave, con-
fidence men, and all that."

"I can get rough, too," said Stover.
"You know, I feel a scrap coming on.
I won't deny I'm a fighter by tempera-
ment, Mr. Buckalew."

"Your grandfather was a fighter,
too," said Buckalew, his deep, dark
eyes introspective as if gating down
corridors of the past. "Much like
you in his youth — big, happy, strong.
Later he turned his back on all this,
Pulambar and other pleasure points,
and became the highest rated natural
philosopher of his time. You inher-
ited his job, you tell me — the unfin-
ished job of perfecting the condenser
ray."

"A job that ought to be done,"
nodded Stover.

»"M*it ^■W.

HMM

| >,:

isar

.*£SL

:,,.***>**££

,-*— r?

a*-**""

■

X&k *.

•"■.';

The drama on the girders had attracted the attention of several taxi

lanee (Chap. XIII}

STARTLING STORIES

"A job that must be done," rejoined
Buckalew earnestly. f *You tell me
how much you like Pulambar, but
doesn't that extravagant lake down
below make you feel a trifle vicious?
Don't you stop to think that the poor
thirsty deserts of Mars could suck up
a thousand times that much water
without showing it?

"Don't you understand how this
great planet, with what was once the
greatest civilization in the known
universe, is dying for lack of water —
or, rather, for the ability to keep that
water? And that's what the conden-
ser ray will do. By the way, you may
call me Robert, if you like. That's
what your grandfather called me."

Stover turned back to a remark he
had begun earlier. "I said I'd like to
fight — Robert. That's because I think,
and keep thinking, of this man Mal-
brook who seems to own Pulambar
and this wasteful lake and all. Why
doesn't he divide the water with the
unfortunate poor?"

"Because he's Malbrook," replied
Buckalew shortly. "He won't like it,
at that, if you make water too easy to
get. That's what will happen if your
condenser ray works. It'll condense
all the water vapor that has been es-
caping up to now, giving rain and re-
turning fertility to this planet."

"Grandfather used to talk like that/ 1
remembered Stover. "I'm not as bril-
liant as he is, but 1*11 work as hard —
after awhile. Just now I want to get
the ugly thought of those poor thirsty
devils out of my mind. I'll have a
drink."

"Your grandfather used to take gull
in his wine," informed Buckalew.

Stover looked at his companion, and
suddenly found it more believable that
here was an old friend of his grand-
father. For all the ungrayed hair and
smooth face, Buckalew had eyes that
might have been born with the first
planets. Not old, but ageless. Stover
began to frame in his mind a polite in-
quiry as to how these things might be.
At that moment a strange voice, clear
and low, broke in upon his medita-
tions,

"Gentlemen, the management sug-
gests that I say how glad we are to see
you at the Zaarr once again,"

BOTH rose, bowing. The speaker
was the girl who had sung.
"Please sit down," begged Stover,
holding a chair.

She smiled and did so. Her eyes
were large and dark, her chin smoothly
pointed. Even without her heavy
makeup she would be lovely. Beside
Stover she seemed no larger than a
child.

Buckalew signaled a robot waiter,
who clanked across with drink, a
healthful Terrestrial wine laced with
powerful Jovian guiL

"This is a pleasure, Miss—" Stover
stumbled.

"My name is Bee MacGowan," the
singer supplied, smiling,

"I've been admiring your singing,"
added Stover, blushing. "A pleasure,
I say."

"Not to that young man," murmured
Buckalew, his eyes flicking toward a
lean, glowering fellow who sat alone
at a near table.

This guest, with his close-fitting
black garments, the mantle flung over
the back of his chair, and his pallid
scowl beneath a profusion of wavy
dark hair, might have sat for a bur-
lesque portrait of Hamlet.

"Oh, he?" said Bee MacGowan.
"He's a little difficult, but I owe him
nothing. Anyway, this is only a pro-
fessional conference, eh?"

Buckalew continued studying the
youth with the angry face. "Isn't he
Amyas Crofts, the son of a vice-presi-
dent or something in Spaceways?
Mmmm. You'd think a dark ray of
the joy-lamp had flicked him, while
a bright one strikes my young friend
here. You're a bit of a joy-lamp your-
self, Miss MacGowan,"

It was Stover's turn to laugh. "Noth-
ing affects Buckalew, though. Neither
joy-lamp, nor wine. As a matter of
fact, I've never seen him drink. His
intoxication must be of the spirit."

Buckalew's smooth dark head
bowed, "Yes, of the spirit. See, isn't
that Mace Malbrook?"

The music had paused, and all
stirred at their tables. One or two
even rose, as though to greet high
nobility. And as far as Pulambar's
society was concerned high nobility
was present.

DEVIL'S PLANET

Mace Maibrook was huge and soft,
draped and folded around with a toga-
like mantle of fiery red* His huge
arrogant head, crowned with luxuriant
waves of chestnut hair, turned this
way and that. His face was Romanly
masterful, for all its softness. The
eyes were bright and deep-set, like
fires in caves. His mouth looked hard
even as he smiled at the respectful
hubbub around him.

"So that's the man who rules Pul-
ambar," said young Dillon Stover.

"Just as his grandfather ruled when
your grandfather and I were young
together here," nodded Buckalew.
**The Malbrooks and Fieldings have
gathered most of the property rights
and concessions in Pulambar. They're
also partners in the Polar Corporation
that distributes water by canal over
Mars."

Maibrook was being offered the best
table. But he had sighted the little
group across the room.

"I don't like people who stare at
me," said Stover audibly.

And those seated nearest him flinch-
ed as at a blasphemy. But he meant
it. The great Maibrook was to him
a rude water-thief, no more and no
less.

"Easy, Dillon," counselled Bucka-
lew softly. "Malbrook's the law here,"

"What's the matter, Miss Mac-
Gowan," Stover asked the girl beside
him. "You're pale. Does he frighten
you?"

"I think he does," she replied softly
and woefully.

Maibrook was striding across to-
ward them. Reaching their table, he
bowed with a heavy flourish. The
room was expectantly silent.

"Aren't you the girl who sings?"
he purred, as if sure of his welcome.
"I have decided to give you some of
my time and attention. These gentle-
men will excuse you, I am sure." And
he looked a command at Stover.

BILLON STOVER stood up, tow-
ering over Maibrook, who was
not particularly small.

"What do you mean by strutting up
like this?" he demanded. "Who are
you?"
Buckalew, too, rose. "After all,

Maibrook, this is a trifle irregular,' 1
he began mildly, when Maibrook
snapped him off,

"You know me, Buckalew, and you'd
better not prate about irregularities.
I could embarrass you considerably,
with two words. Or even one — a word
that begins with-R." The deep, bright
eyes turned to Stover again, raking
him insolently. "And since you don't
know me, youngster, wait until I speak
to you before you start dictating. All
I want from you is the company of
this lady."

He put his hand on Bee MacGowan's
shoulder. She twitched away. And
Stover promptly knocked Mace Mai-
brook down. Just like that.

Even as he uppercut Malbrook's
fleshy curve of jaw, Stover knew what
would follow. This was a man of
importance and power. There was
going to be trouble. While Maibrook
bounced on the crystal floor, Stover
kicked his chair away and set himself
to meet a rush of attackers.

It did not come. Dead silent, the
people at the tables stood up, as at a
significant moment. That was all.
Stover, who would have gladly fought
a dozen Pulambar sparks, felt a trifle
silly.

Then several figures quietly ap-
proached — Prrala, the Martian pro-
prietor, and a pair of robot servants,
silvery bright and taller than Stover.
Behind them came a slight, sinewy
fellow in green and silver who stooped
to assist Maibrook. On his feet again,
Maibrook faced Stover, hard-eyed.
One well-kept hand rubbed his jaw.

"You struck me," Maibrook said
incredulously.

Stover could have laughed. "Indeed
I did, and I'll do it again if you don't
mend your manners."

Bee MacGowan was leaving, at a
gesture from Prrala. The angry-faced
youngster, Amyas Crofts, was follow-
ing her and talking rapidly. Mean-
while, Maibrook eyed Stover with in-
solent menace.

"Fine physical specimen," he
sighed. "Worth working on. We'll
go further into the matter, of course."

Stover understood. A duel. The
System in general scorned duels. In
some places they were forbidden, but

STARTLING STORIES

they happened in Pulambar. Any-
thing could happen in Pulambar. Oc-
casional mannered killings added
spice to society. Just now, he was
being chosen for a victim.

"Whenever you like," he replied,
"Mr. Buckalew will act for me."

Prrala touched one of his robots,
and the thing moved nearer to Stover,
as if to prevent him from doing some-
thing or other. Robots were apt to
overawe newcomers in Pulambar with
their size and metallic appearance of
strength, but Stover, a scientist from
boyhood, knew them for what they
were — clumsy, dull makeshifts that
could do only the simpler tasks of
waiting on mankind.

"Keep that tin soldier back," Stover
warned, "or 1*11 smack him over,"

"I only wissh that therre be no
morre violent quarrrelling," said
Prrala in his purring voice.

"There'll be no more quarreling
here/* promised the sinewy man in
green and silver, turning to Stover.
"What's your name? Stover? Before
you go asking for challenges, better
realize that Mr. Malbrook is the most
accomplished duellist in Pulambar.
You haven't a chance against him,"

CHAPTER III
Sudden Death

THIS speech carried to almost
every ear in the hall. Stover

bowed.

"I can't withdraw, after that, with-
out looking afraid. I'll fight your
friend Malbrook very cheerfully, Mr,
—Mr.—"

"Brome Fielding," supplied Bucka-
lew in a worried voice, and Stover
remembered that this was the name
of Malbrook's partner in society and
finance, "I wish, Dillon, that in some
way—"

"Never mind, Buckalew," snarled
Malbrook suddenly. "Don't try to talk
him out of it. I've challenged, and
he's accepted. Do I have to remind
you again that you'd better do as I
say?"

"That's enough," growled Stover so

savagely that everybody faced him,
"If it's killing Malbrook needs, I'll
"cooperate," His anger had risen
steadily higher, but he felt cold and
steady. "I begin to think he should
have been killed long ago. Listen,
everyone!" he shouted to the roomful.
"Haven't many of you wanted to kill
this strutting swine? Well, I'll do it
for all of us."

Prrala, all flower-head and waving
arm-tentacles, made little hisses and
gestures of pacification. Buckalew
swiftly caught Stover's arm, leading
him into the vestibule. A helio-taxi
hung there, and they got in and headed
for their tower lodgings, Stover still
protesting. The sky was doubly starry
overhead, and the two moons of Mars,
larger than Luna seems from Earth,
gave them white light. Below beat up
the welter of light and sound from the
lower levels.

"It isn't as if you loved that girl, or
even knew her well," reproved Bucka-
lew. "If you did, it might be worth
your while to commit suicide like
this."

Stover cooled a bit. "How did I get
into this position of kill or be killed?"
he demanded. "I was minding my busi-
ness. Up bobbed Malbrook to act a
first-class pig. No man would en-
dure—"

"Folk in Pulambar endure a lot from
Malbrook," said Buckalew signifi-
cantly.

And Stover remembered how Mal-
brook had snubbed Buckalew by a
threat of exposure — exposure in one
word, beginning with R. What could
it be? Was Buckalew secretly plot-
ting rebellion? But his own problem
had better occupy his attention.

"Don't be so sure he can kill me,
Robert," he growled, leaning back
against the cushions of the flyer cabin,
"What will this duel be with? Electro-
automatics, ray sabers, MS-projectors,
or just plain fists? I'm handy with all
of them."

"Palambar duels aren't that simple.
Malbrook, the party attacked, can
choose his own weapons and condi-
tions. He might make it under water,
if he thought he swam better than you.
Or with knives or acid hypodermics.
It might be a cut of the cards, loaer

DEVIL'S PLANET

to drink poison — with cards stacked.
Or in a dark room, each with a single-
shot pistol, Malbrook choosing a room
he knows well and which you've never
entered. He's boss, I say. He can
run this affair, like any affair in Pul-
ambar, to suit himself."

"Thanks for the tip," said Stover,
his lips hardening. "Fm to be slaught-
ered, then? But I'll make my own
terms. Both of us to go armed, and
start shooting or stabbing or raying
on sight. That would make it fair,
and Malbrook doesn't deserve even
that."

"Well," said Buckalew, gazing from
a port, "we're at our diggings. Judging
from the flyers moored outside and
the lights inside, we have company/*

They had. Stepping from the hover-
ing flyer to their balcony and handing
their cloaks to the robot attendant,
they entered to find a group of people,
brilliantly dressed and set-faced, in
their sitting-room.

FIRST of these, Dillon Stover rec-
ognized tawny Bee MacGowan.
For a moment it seemed as if she were
alone before him, and most important
— the trouble over her made her a
responsibility and a comrade. Bucka-
lew began making introductions.

"This, Dillon, is Miss Reynardine
Phogor. And this is her guardian,
Phogor of Venus. You've seen Mr.
Amyas Crofts, but you haven't met
him. You know Prrala, proprietor of
the Zaarr; and Mr. Fielding, Mr. Mal-
brook's business associate."

"Also his second," added in Field-
ing. "I'm here to arrange matters.
Malbrook, having choice of condi-
tions, wants — "

"I don't care what he wants," inter-
rupted Stover curtly. "I've just heard
how duels are planned — framed,
rather— in Pulambar. Nothing doing.
Let us arm ourselves and fight on

sight."

"Eh?" gasped Fielding. "That's
not at all what Malbrook wants."

"I can well believe it," nodded Sto-
ver bleakly. "He's had things too
much his own way here in Pulambar.
He thinks he can insult ladies like
Miss MacGowan and kill men like me,
because he has the difference on his

side. Well, I'm holding out for an
even break."

All stared at Stover. Reynardine
Phogor spoke first.

"I'm on the fringe of all this. I'd
like information and explanation, Mr,
Stover."

"If I can give you either." And
Stover bowed courteously.

The girl was almost as tall for a
woman as he for a man, of generous
but graceful contour, with sultry dark
beauty. Her hair, by careful process-
ing, was fashionably "brindled" —
broad streaks of pallor among the
natural dark. Her tight gown gleamed
with jewels. For a moment little Bee
MacGowan seemed almost dull by
comparison.

"Frankly, I thought I was on the
best terms with Mace Malbrook," she
was continuing. "We talked of mar-
riage. Then he quarrels with you
over this — this — " She gestured at
Bee MacGowan.

The singer was pale but angry. "All
I came here for was to see if I couldn't
stop the duel some way/' she pro-
tested.

Amyas Crofts snarled in his throat.
"Speaking of marriage," he said, "con-
sider any idea of that off between us,
Bee."

"I never accepted you," Bee flung
back.

There was a moment almost of con-
certed recriminations — Crofts, Rey-
nardine Phogor and Bee MacGowan
all at once execrating Malbrook. Bee
MacGowan quieted first, as if ashamed
of her exhibition. Then Fielding
waved Crofts silent.

"When I tell Mr. Malbrook what
you've said," he announced grimly,
"he'll give you a challenge to follow
this affair with Mr. Stover."

Crofts turned pale as ashes, but
clenched his bony fists. Meanwhile
Phogor, a richly clad Venusian with
the wide mouth, pop eyes and mottled
skin of a monstrous frog, was address-
ing his stepdaughter.

"Control yourself, Reynardine. I
do not like this loud — "

"I don't like it, either!" she cried.
"Daddy Phogor, it's no more fun for
me than for you. But if I didn't fight
for my man — " She whirled upon Bee

STARTLING STORIES

MacGowan. "Survival of the fittest,
you warbling little sneak— and I feel
mighty fit. Well Mr. Stover? You
promised to explain?"

"If you give me a chance/* replied
Stover quietly. "I had just met Miss
MacGowan. We weren't beyond the
first introductions when this Mal-
brook fellow swaggered up and made
himself obnoxious. I hit him, and he
challenged me. Just like that. And
I demand a fifty-fifty chance. I think
that covers everything."

PHOGOR boomed forth, loudly
even for a Venusian.
"I did not know how things stood
with my ward. If Malbrook offered
marriage, then followed with this dis-
graceful conduct—*' He broke off for
a moment. Then, "Don't try to
frighten me by staring. Fielding. You
and Malbrook are absolute rulers here,
but I'm important on Venus. I have
money and power. 1*11 take care of
myself and Reynardine."

"What brings you, Prrala?" Bucka-
lew asked worriedly at this juncture.
The long-robed Martian bowed. "I
wissh peace," he slurred out, "It will
haarm my business if it iss rreporrted
that a morrtal duel had itss sstarrt in
my esstablisshment. I hope to brring
about a bloodlesss ssettlement."

Stover waved the appeal away.
"Sorry. Mr. Fielding fixed it so that
I couldn't withdraw by telling how
dangerous his friend is."

The Martian bowed. "Then I musst
trry Mr. Malbrrook." He said fare-
wells all around and departed.

"Malbrook won't listen, either,"
Fielding said as the door closed be-
hind Prrala. "And when he hears
those charges of foul play he won't
like them. Nor, Buckalew, will he
appreciate your standing behind Sto-
ver in that attitude."

Buckalew's eyes glittered. "Do you
think I'll endure being bulldozed for-
ever?*' he demanded.

"You'd better endure it forever,"

warned Fielding.

"Someone should silence Mal-
brook's dirty mouth," said Buckalew
hotly, and walked away across the
floor.

Phogor moved doorward.

"Come, Reynardine," he said grave-
ly. "You see the low valuation Mr.
Malbrook places upon you and your
feelings. Mr. Stover, I am inclined
to wish you good luck."

Fielding laughed aloud, "You're
optimistic. Malbrook will slay this
insolent young spark with no effort.
You, Phogor, will wish you hadn't
spoken like that— and the rest of you,
too." He took a step toward Bee Mac-
Gowan. "As for you, you little trouble-
maker — M

"Fielding, shall I give you the twin
to that punch Malbrook got?" asked
Stover harshly. "No? Then clear
out,"

In a few moments all the callers
were gone but Bee MacGowan and
young Crofts.

"Amyas," said the girl, "will you
go on ahead? I have something I
must ask Mr. Stover." When the
youth had ungraciously departed she
faced Stover. "I've done this to you,"
she accused herself tremulously. "Do
you think that I might go to Malbrook
and straighten this out?"

"Miss MacGowan," said Stover,
"you seem to think that I stand great-
ly in fear of what that lardy bully
can do. Give yourself no concern.
The one to suffer will be Malbrook.
There are graver reasons than a mere
brawl."

"Drop it, Dillon!" pleaded Bucka-
lew, returning from an inner room.
Malbrook and Fielding can do as
they please. You don't stand a chance.
Since you've refused a formal duel
and threatened Malbrook, there'll be
an armed watch set. You may even
be arrested. At the first overt move
you make—" Buckalew's long, fine fin-
gers snapped— "you'll be eliminated."

"They can't!" protested Stover.

"They can do anything— kill you
and ruin me, just like winking."

"I'll go to Malbrook," said Bee
MacGowan again, firmly,

'Come back!" cried Stover, hurry-
ing after her. But she was already
gone. He reached the balcony just in
time to see her board a helio-car and
soar away.

Stover pressed a button, setting
aglow the signal for an air-taxi to

DEVIL'S PLANET

come,

Then he returned to the sit-
ting-room,

"She'll only give Maibrook another
chance to insult her," he began, then
saw that Buckalew had left the room.
He went to a locker and took from it
an electro-automatic pistol. Thrust-
ing this into his girdle, he went back
to the balcony.

WELL, the arbiter of Pulambar
society was set on getting his
blood, thought Stover, Mace Mal-

HNNMS1

*j-*K

U^VF

e-Sff

ran

fefe?

.apt&ei

....

mam

Mna

mm^&

*->#-■

'-"^a

-S

^7/c tiiKjm

.-Ea

-**«***>,.

■

L-i,

.^xrf'"

Sftfttf

.*•', ■ n

-■■> ' & * *"- Jt

■ MM

•**.>-

ij. ^

-O

.-.*

i*IS

Wih. * «**.

35a 1

■ ,.

fc* ■ '

•

lA' ' ". '"r

I*--

i.-*A

-• A -i

; .v^V:

■

HC '

;iv«

■#

•

■

*a,\

^.r

^r.

■:■-;.<■'

.«£*&?

v ••'--

>?.-;:

.>-

Three times the Pulambar police came to peer
in the desert dome (Chap. VII)

brook, starver of the poor, killer of
the thirsty, bully and snob and tyrant,
might think the quarrel had started
from a trifle, but Stover's unpleasant
experience of the afternoon, coupled
with the insult to Bee MacGowan
and perhaps stirred up by drink and
joy-lamp, had helped launch that blow
in Malbrook's face. Now since death

'v.-t;

STARTLING STORIES

threatened him, it was imperative
that he strike first,

A flying car swooped close, and
Stover sprang aboard, "You know
where Mace Malbrook lives?" he
asked the pilot.

"Who doesn't? Are you a friend
of his, sir?"

"I'm an enemy of his — the man
who's going to kill him," replied Sto-
ver. "Take me to his place at once."

"Sure thing," chuckled the pilot,
plainly wondering what sort of joke
this glittering customer was pleased
to make.

Malbrook lived in a broad central
tower of Pulambar, one of the four
or five tallest, proudly aloof from the
others. Stover disembarked on a ter-
raced balcony.

A jointed robot servitor tried to
halt him, but a shove of his big hand
swept the stupid thing clanking clum-
sily aside. He burst into a reception
hall, richly and garishly furnished.
Before an inner door sprawled some-
thing, another robot, its silvery body
clad in the white coat of a valet. It
was quite still and limp, the front of
its glass face-lamp broken, Somebody
else had been here, and in a nasty
mood.

Stover stepped across the metal car-
cass, up a hall and into a lighted room
beyond. He came face to face with
Brome Fielding, who lounged on a
settle outside a heavy metal panel-
way.

"Where's Malbrook?" demanded
Stover.

Fielding jerked his head at the
panel. "Inside his private rooms. I
think Prrala's with him, trying to talk
him out of the duel. No use your try-
ing the same thing ; it's beyond apolo-
gies now," Fielding's eyes shifted to
the pistol-butt at Stover's waist.
"Why are you carrying that gun?"
^ "It's for Malbrook," said Stover.
"Who smashed the robot outside?"

"You mean Malbrook's valet? I
posted him there to keep people out.
Phogor tried to get in with that step-
daughter, and one or two others,"

"The valet's wrecked," informed
Stover. "Get out of my way. I'm
going in after Malbrook."

Fielding made a snatch at Stover's

gun, and the young Earthman dispas-
sionately hooked a fist to his jaw. The
fellow spun around and crumpled in a
corner. Stover knocked on the panel
ringingly.

w "Open up, Malbrook," he called,
"Either let me in, or come out. It's
Stover. If we're going to fight, let's
do it now,"

Silence, for perhaps five seconds.
Then :

A thunderous crash of sound and
force rocked the apartment around
like a skiff on a hurricane sea. Stover
was hurled backward, the metal door
upon him. He fell, wriggled out from
under the slap, and came groggily to
his feet. Where the door had been
set was now an oblong of murky light
He faced it, pistol in hand. Whatever
had happened wasn't enough to kill
him. Let Malbrook show his head.

"Clumsy work!" he cried in chal-
lenge. "I'm still all in one piece.
Show yourself, and we'll finish this
business,"

Fielding was getting up, shaky and
half-stunned. "What — what — " he
mumbled.

"Explosion," said Stover. "Inside
Your friend Malbrook tried some
cheap trick, but it didn't work."

Fielding darted through the door-
way. Inside, he screamed once, loud-
ly and tremulously. A moment later
he sprang back into view.

"Malbrook?" he cried. "He's
dead!"

CHAPTER IV
The Law in Pulambar

T HAT news cleared Stover's buzz-
-■. ing head like a whiff of ammonia.
He bounded past Fielding into Mal-
brook's private apartment

The room was full of hot, choking
vapor, the sybaritic luxury thrown
into turmoil by the explosion. Plati-
num-and-velvet furniture was over-
turned, gorgeous hangings ripped to
shreds, delicately tinted walls racked
and bulged. Another step, and he al-
most stumbled over something.

Mace Malbrook, judging by the rags

DEVIL'S PLANET

of that fire-colored mantle. No person
could be so shattered and live. Be-
side him lay another still form, a
flower-headed Martain, still moving

slightly.

Stooping, Stover picked up Prrala's
bladdery body and bore it out into the
hall. Fielding was quavering into a
vision-phone.

"Send police! We have the corpse,
y es _ a nd the killer!" Spinning, he
leveled a ray-thrower.

"You're under arrest, Stover," he

said.

"Don't be a fool," snapped the other,
laying Prrala upon the settle where
Fielding had first been sitting.

The Martian finally appeared to re-
gain consciousness.

"Sstoverr ?" he slurred feebly. "Why

did you do it?

"I did nothing," Stover assured

him. "Just as I knocked—"

Police were rushing in, big, hard-
bodied men in silk-metal tunics of
black. Most of them were of the Low-
er Pulambar Patrol, but the leader
wore the insignia of the Martio-Ter-
restrial League Service. He was gaunt
and gray-templed, and his narrow
eyes took in at a glance the still fig-
ure on the couch, Fielding with his
leveled weapon, and the baffled, angry

Stover.

•Tm Chief Agent Congreve," he
introduced himself crisply. "What's

what?"

Fielding gestured with the ray
thrower. "Stover did it. He charged
in, slapped me down, and—"

"I wasn't even inside," exploded
Stover. "An explosion killed Mal-
brook and hurt Prrala here, almost
getting me, too,"

Congreve faced Fielding. "You saw
this man do the killing?"

"No, he knocked me down, I tell
you. But he and Malbrook had quar-
reled. He came here for a showdown."

Congreve turned to Stover. "How
much of that's true?"

"All of it, except that someone beat
me to it. I didn't kill Malbrook,"

Two officers were inspecting the
wrecked room. "Almost blown to
pieces," reported one. "Can't be sure
of the explosive."

"Then make sure,' 1 snapped Con-

greve. "Chemical tests, and hurry
before the air freshens. Doctor, how's
that hurt Martian?"

A .Venusian, bending over Prrala,
replied gravely.

"He is reviving a trifle. May speak
— perhaps for the last time."

"Take a record," Congreve directed
still another man, who produced a dic-
tagraph from his belt-pouch. Then,
to Stover: "If you killed Malbrook,
why not save us both trouble and say

so?"
"I didn't," repeated Stover. "That's

enough for you."

"You're talking to the law," warned
Congreve,

"I seem to be talking to a fool.
Fielding's the only witness, and he
admits he was unconscious when the
blast went off."

"You came here to kill Malbrook,"
accused Fielding.

"That has nothing to do with it,
I was too late to kill him."

The Venusian doctor spoke again.
"Quiet. This patient is trying to
speak," He needled stimulant into
Prrala's neck. "Do your best," he
urged the Martian. "Tell what hap-
pened."

ONE of Prrala's tentacles fluttered
up toward Stover, "Thiss man
killed Malbrook. I wass prressent."

"Prrala was trying to make peace,"
volunteered Fielding, "He was in Mal-
brook's room when — "

"Let him tell it " bade Congreve.

Prrala managed more words. "We
thought we werre alone. But, while
we sspoke, ssomeone appeared in the
rroorn with uss. Malbrrook sspoke;
'SstoverrP And I ssaw that it wass

he."
"Prrala!" protested Stover. "I was

outside."

"But I rrecognized you " Prrala

was growing weaker, "Grreat height
— blond hairr — gold garrmentss — it
wass you, Sstoverr, Why. . . .

"He's close to the brink," said Con-
greve. "Needle him again, Doctor.
Prrala, tell us the rest."

"Little to tell . . . Malbrrook ssaid,
*Sstand back, orr I firre,' Sstover
sseemed about to leap. Malbrrook
firred an electrro-automatic ♦ . .ex-

STARTLING STORIES

plosion

I know nothing morre,

His voice died away Stover knelt
beside him.

"You say I'm the killer, Prrala. But
did nobody come in while you were
with Malbrook?"

He thought of his own visitors earl-
ier in the evening. Each had wanted
to see Malbrook. Prrala summoned
his last strength.

"Yess . . . one came . . , interrupted
uss forr a moment. ..."

"Who, Prrala? Who?"

"It wass. ..." The Martian fell
limp and silent.

"Wake him, Doctor," urged Con-
greve. "He can't die now."

The chief agent was wrong. Prrala
was already dead.

Silence. Then two more figures en-
tered. A policeman reported.

"Look what I found prowling
around, Chief. Pretty, eh?"

He held Bee MacGowan by one
round, bare arm. She was drawn of
face, but her eyes were steady and un-
afraid. Congreve beckoned her.

"You knew Malbrook, young wo-
man?"

She nodded. "I wanted to ask a
favor. His robot valet wouldn't let
me in."

"Are you the one who wrecked that
robot?" asked Congreve.

Bee MacGowan said nothing. Stov-
er spoke for her.

"When was wrecking a robot such
a crime? They're simple, cheap —
fifty value-units is plenty to pay for
the best of them. And Pulambar crawls
with them."

"Take the young woman's name,"
ordered Congreve. Then, to Stover;
"You talk too much. You're under
arrest. Come to my office."

He slid a hand under Stover's elbow.

TORN between rage and bewilder-
ment, Stover went with his cap-
tors to the police flyer. They sped
across the starry night to an opening
lower down in another tower and
transferred to an elevator. Again de-
scending, they came to an office. Con-
greve took the single chair, leaving
Stover on his feet. Another officer
held a dictograph.

"I give you one more chance to
talk," said Congreve sternly.

"I tell you once more that I'm in-
nocent!" yelled Stover, the hot tem-
per that had brought him to this
plight reasserting itself. "I had had
a quarrel with Malbrook. I went there
to fight him. But he died at the hand
of some other man, and a good thing."
Congreve studied his prisoner.
"Gold cloth. Big, swell-looking fel-
low. Rich. Popular. You'll be missed
up in that high-tower set. They've
got away with many a rough and
silly thing, those idle-richers, but the
murder of an important man like Mal-
brook is where simple law officers
like me step in. You'll be made an
example."

"While you take out your spite
against the rich crowd by insulting
me," said Stover acidly. "The real
killer's getting far away."

"Hard to crack, this Stover," said
Congreve to the man with the dicta-
graph. "Lock him up and let him
think it over."

Again Stover was marched away,
down a long corridor of gray metal
to a row of doors at the end. One of
these doors swung open. Stover
stepped in.

The cell was metal-lined, about five
feet broad by seven long, and barely
high enough to clear Stover's blond
curls. It had no window, only a vent-
ilator, and the dimmest of blue lights.
The sole furniture was a metal cot
against the rear wall.

Congreve had followed Stover. "I'll
put my cards on the table," he said,
"because they're good enough cards
to show. I know these things;

"You and Malbrook quarreled and
were going to shoot it out. You came
to his place, on your own confession,
to have a showdown. He was shut in
a special apartment built to defend
him from any attack. The only way
in was via the door, if it could be
forced.

"A witness died saying that you
were the guilty one. Nobody lies on
his deathbed, Stover. Then there's
Fielding's story, the report of a robot
you pushed away to get in, and an
air-taximan who says you told him
you were going to kill Malbrook.

DEVIL'S PLANET

"Our tests show that the weapon
was simple old-fashioned nitro-glycer-
in. You're down on Martian registers
as a research scientist from Earth.
You could have brought or made such
stuff easily. You've been ugly and
threatening to numerous persons and
defiant to me. All you can say now
is, 'I didn't do it/ "

"And I didn't," flung out Stover
once more.

"I think you did. I think you
smashed that guard-robot at the front
door f knocked down Fielding, and
jimmied Malbrook's door some way.
He shot at you, but that wouldn't
make your plea of self-defense any
good. You were invading his prem-
ises. You blew him up. Only the last
words of Prrala kept you from cov-
ering yourself somehow. That's what
I'm going to prove against you in a
court of law. You'll pay for the crime
with your own life. Good-night,
Stover."

The door clanked shut. Stover, alone
in his blue-dim cell, sat on the edge
of the cot.

"They can't do this to me," he said
aloud. "I'm innocent. Innocent men
aren't found guilty — or are they? In
Pulambar anything can happen."

SUDDENLY the light turned
green, then yellow, then orange,
then red.

Stover gazed up at it.

"Joy-lamp!" he muttered. "Not
that I'm very joyous, though. What's
the idea?"

The answer came to him. For ages,
Martians had used these ever-chang-
ing rays as a pleasant stimulant.

People of Earth, not conditioned as
a race to such things, were frequently
intoxicated, sometimes drugged —
even driven mad — when they got too
much joy-lamp. The police, appar-
ently, had another use for the device.
A man's wits, befuddled, would pre-
sent less of an obstacle to question-
ing.

"Congreve will quiz me again," de-
cided Stover. "Expect to find me off
balance and unable to lie* What won't
they think of next?"

But he had already told the truth,
and it had not convinced. Checking
back, he could see why not. He had
quarreled with Malbrook, struck him,
threatened to kill him on sight. He
had gone forth to do it. He had been
prevented, probably, because some-
one had done the same errand more
promptly.

"Congreve won't swallow it," he
told himself moodily. "I'll get thick-
tongued and mouth all this out. He'll
think it sounds even goopier than be-
fore, and give me the next jolt of the
third degree, probably less pleasant
than the joy-lamp."

He put his mind on the mystery
again. Only proof, complete and con-
vincing, would set him free. Some-
one else had killed Malbrook. Who?

His mind turned to the visitors who
had discussed the proposed duel at
his quarters. Each, as it happened,
had sworn to visit Malbrook, for good
or ill. Prrala had been the first to go,
and was dead now. What of the
others?

If he was to be fuddled by the joy-
lamp, he had best make notes from

[Turn page]

FOLLOW THE WORLD'S GREATEST SPACE-FARER

IN OUR

Featured in the Winter Issue

QUEST BEYOND
THE STARS

Complete Book- Length
Captain Future Novel

By EDMOND HAMILTON

COMPANION MAGAZINE

CAPTAIN
FUTURE

NOW ON SALE

AT ALL STANDS

STARTLING STORIES

which to argue. From his belt-pouch
he took a small pad and a pencil.
Waiting for the joy-lamp to give him
a clear violet light, he began to write.

REYNARDINE PHOGOR
Character: Proud, hard, beautiful. Jeal-
ous of Malbrook's attentions to Bee Mac-
Gowan. Considers herself scorned. Prob-
ably capable of killing.

Possible Motive: Jealousy and injured
pride.

Possible mode of murder: As Mal-
brook's fiancee, may have known how to
enter his specially defended apartment*

PHOGOR

Character: Venusian, People of Venus
consider murder lightly.

Possible motive: Knew nothing of step-
daughter's engagement to Malbrook until
incident of challenge. Surprised, resentful.

Possible mode of murder: May have
pushed in, as I am accused of doing. Got
there ahead of Prrala and Fielding, hid in
room before it was closed.

ROBERT BUCKALEW
Character: Mysterious, witty, likeable.
Probably would kill if he decided it nec-
essary.

Possible motive: Malbrook threatened
him with exposure of some deadly secret.
Possible mode of murder: As close ac-
quaintance of Malbrook, with quarrel and
threat of long standing, may have previ-
ously planned way in and method of kill-
ing. If so, must have left for Malbrook's
when I did.

AMYAS CROFTS

Character: Callow, vicious, vain, hot-
headed.

Possible motive: In love with Bee Mac-
Gowan — jealous of Malbrook. Also, it was
suggested that Malbrook might kill him
in later duel.

Possible mode of murder: Stealthy or
violent entry.

BROME FIELDING
Character: Ruthless, haughty, shrewd.
Long associated with Malbrook.

Possible motive: Possible quarrel, per-
sonal or business. Both men masterful and
Violent, capable of such clash.

Possible mode of murder: Hard to figure
out — accomplice or illusion.

MY OWN DEFENSE
Despite identification of myself as killer,
there may have been impersonation — mask,
wig, stilts for height, costume. Light not
too good, appearance brief, Prrala's testi-
mony given in great pain and at moment
of death.

Explosion occurred in chamber while I
was out. Recommend more thorough in-
vestigation.

This last seemed hard to write. Sto-
ver felt weary, half-blind. He put

away his notes and tried to lie on the
cot. Then he looked up at the joy-
lamp, and smiled as if in inspiration.
He slid under the bed.

Thus shaded from the befuddling
glow, he felt his head wash clear
again. Maybe he wouldn't be think-
ing at too great a disadvantage, after
all.

CHAPTER V
The Escape

TIME passed. Stover slept, then
awakened. His door was being
opened. A man in uniform entered.
Congreve? No, this was a sturdy,
dark fellow with a tray of dishes,
plainly a jailor of some sort. Two
pale eyes, strange in that swarthy
face, looked at Stover.

*'What are you doing down there?*'
demanded the jailer. "Here, the chief
thought you might like some rations."

Stover rose. He felt no more in-
toxication. "What time is it, approxi-
mately?" he asked.

"Evening. Past sundown. I'm
going off duty in five minutes." The
jailer set the tray on the bed.

Stover, then, had slept for hours,
#nd it was dark once more. "Wait,"
he said. "I want to talk to you."

What he really wanted was a chance
to study the jailer's face, for inspira-
tion had come to him; but the chance
was short,

"Against orders," he was told. *Tve
got to push along."

And the man left. But not before
Stover had seen that he had a face
somewhat like his own — big, straight
nose, square jaw, bright blue eyes.
The difference was in complexion —
black hair and brown skin. And com-
plexion could be changed.

First Stover inspected the contents
of the tray. Most of the food was syn-
thetic — meat paste, acid drink, a salad
of cellophanelike sheets of roughage.
What interested him most was a hunk
of butter substitute. Sitting down be-
side the tray, Stover again produced
the pencil from his belt-pouch.

With his strong fingers he split the

DEVIL'S PLANET

wood and extracted the soft, crumbly
lead- Breaking the black stick in two,
he rubbed the two bits together over
the butter. The sooty powder fell
thickly, and Stover mixed it in with
a fork, producing a wad of gleaming
oily-black substance. Quickly he
rubbed this into his blond hair,
smoothing out its curls and plastering
them to his skull. The tray, which
was of shiny metal, served as a mirror,
He looked about as dark-haired as the
jailer.

"So far so good," he approved, and
again overhauled the food-stuffs.
The cup of acid drink seemed most
promising. Once more he explored
his pouch. It yielded two cigarettes.
Splitting these, he dropped the shreds
of tobacco into the cup. judicious
stirring and mixing provided him with
a coffee-brown liquid. He made tests
on the back of his hand, deepened the
tint with the last of his powdered
pencil-lead. Finally he doffed his
stylish golden garments.

With palmful after palmful of the
makeshift dye, he stained his big body
and limbs, using the tray as a mirror
while he darkened his face and neck
as well. His hands and feet were also
treated. Now he appeared as a naked,
swarthy personage with strangely
pale eyes who was not too different
from the jailer.

He waited some time longer, to be
sure that enough time had passed to
insure the fellow being well off duty.
Then he sprang to the door, beating
on it with his fists.

"Help! Help!" he roared. "I'm
penned up! Prisoner's escaping!"

Answering commotion sounded out-
side. Then a harsh voice:

"What's the racket in there, Sto-
ver?"

"Stover's gone," he made gruff re-
ply. "When I brought him his food,
he jumped on me, knocked me out and
took my clothes. He got away!"

"Oh, it's Dellis?" The door was
quickly unlocked and opened.

REMEMBERING that the jailor
he impersonated had not
matched his inches, Stover crouched
on the floor. The shifting light of the
joy-lamp helped his disguise, and the

police guard who looked in was de-
ceived for the moment.

"What happened, did you say?"
"Can't you see?" Stover yelled in
feigned impatience. "He knocked
me out and took my uniform. There's
his rig." He pointed with one stained
hand at his own crumpled garments in
a corner. "While you stand there,
he's probably clear away."

"Well, come out of there," the
guard told him. "Wrap a blanket
from the cot around you. We've got
to, make a report, quick!"

Stover wrapped himself up as di-
rected, taking care to slump and so
approximate the lesser height of the
jailor Dellis. Under the blanket he
brought along his felt and pouch. But
he did not intend to appear before
Congreve or other too-observant offi-
cers. Reeling, he supported himself
against the door- jamb.
"I still feel shaky."
"Here, then." Another guard had
come up, and the first guard beckoned
him. "Take Dellis to the locker room
while I report to the front office. That
big society lad, Stover, got away."

Leaning heavily on the newcomer's
arm, and half-swaddling his stained
head and body in the blanket. Stover
allowed himself to be helped down
another corridor and into a long room
lined with lockers. Against one wall
was a cot, where he dropped with a
moan.

"Hurt bad, Dellis?" asked the guard
who had brought him.

"I hope not," sighed Stover. "Let
me lie here for a while."

The other left. As the door closed,
Stover sprang up and to a lavatory.
Scrubbing violently, he cleansed hair
and body of his messy disguise. Then
he opened locker after locker. Most
of the clothes inside were too small,
but he found a drab civilian tunic in
one, breeches in another, and boots
in a third, all of them fair fits. Thus
properly clad, he donned his own
pouch and girdle and went to a win-
dow.

The level of the cells was still high
above the noise and glow of the canal
levels. A man less desperate might
feel giddy, but Stover had no time
for phobias. He must be free to find

STARTLING STORIES

and convict the true murderer of
Malbrook. Only thus could he hope
to survive.

Quickly he ripped the blanket into
half a dozen strips. Knotting these
into a rope, he tied one end to a
bracketlike fixture on the outer sill,
A moment later he was sliding down
into the night.

The gravity of Mars being barely
four-tenths that of Earth, Stover's
huge body weighed no more than
eighty pounds as it swung to the cord
of knotted blankets. Even so, he
needed all of his nerve, strength and
agility for what he planned to do.

A few seconds brought him to the
end of his line, thirty feet below
the window-sill. There were no win-
dows or other openings at that point,
and no projections on the smooth
concrete wall, only a metal tube, barely
an inch in diameter, that housed some
slender power lines and ran vertically
beside him. Every fifty feet or so it
was clamped to the wall by a big
staple. One such staple held it at the
point where Stover dangled.

He looked in the other direction.
Ten or twelve yards opposite was an-
other building, with many lighted
windows. Given a solid footing, he
might have tried to leap. As it was,
he must bridge the gap otherwise. He
hung to his blanket-cord with one
hand while he tugged and tore at the
metal tubing. It was none too tough,
and broke just at the staple. A jerk
parted the wires inside. He tested
the broken' tube. It was springy and
gave some resistance, but would it be
enough? He could only try, with a
prayer to all the gods of all the
planets.

GRASPING the tube with both
hands, he quitted his cord. There
he hung for a moment, like a beetle
on a grass-stalk. Then the tube began
to buckle outward at the staple clamp
some fifty feet below. Stover's eighty
pounds of weight swung it out across
the chasm. He dared not look at the
depths below. His eyes, turned over-
head, watched the crawl of Deimos'
disk across the starry sky. The tube
was bending swiftly now — he was
traveling out and down in a swift arc.

Ping! The tube broke at the lower
staple. At the same instant Stover
felt his shoulder brush against the
wall of the building opposite. He let
go of the tube, tried to clutch a win-
dow sill, and missed. He felt suddenly
sick as he slid down the crag of con-
crete. His boot-heels smacked on a
sill below, flew from it, and he made
another desperate grasp. This time
he made good his hold, and swung
there, staring in.

The sizeable room was garishly
lighted. People stood or sat inside,
close-packed around tables. There was
music from a radio tuned in on Earth,
and a cheerful hubbub of everyone
talking and laughing. At the table
nearest the window were men and
women in middle-class celebration
clothes.

One of them flourished his loose-
clenched fist, then brought it down
and whipped it open. Out danced two
pale cubes with black spots on their
faces.

Dice — a game known when the pyra-
mids were new, perhaps in the pre-
civilized days before. Dice, which in
ancient Rome had gained and lost
mighty fortunes ; which had delighted
such rulers as Henry VIII of Eng-
land, and such philosophers as Samuel
L. Clemens of America. Dice, the one
gambling game which had lasted to the
thirtieth century.

"Game-dive," panted Stover.
"Crowded, confused, relaxed. No
worry about murders. I'll go in."

He worked along the sill, toward
the next window. It was too far for
his arms to span, but he spun his body
sidewise, hooked a boot-toe within,
let go and hurled himself across the
sill and in.

He was in a private dining-room,
A man and a woman sat at a table
strewn with dishes, smirking affec-
tionately at each other. As Stover
drew himself up, the woman gave a
little smoothered cry of alarm and
shrank into her chair. The man rose.

"Listen," he snarled to her, "if you
say this, is your husband, I'll tell you
I'm too old for such a blackmail game

"I'm nobody's husband," Stover
interrupted. "I just climbed in on a

DEVIL'S PLANET

bet. Thought it was a game-dive/*

"You're one window mistaken,' 1 the
man said. "Get out of here."

Stover apologized and walked
through a door, into the crowd be-
yond.

At the large central table, "indem-
nity" was being played. This old
space-pirate game was almost as sim-
ple as blackjack and simpler than
roulette. Each player could call for
a card at each deal, or could refuse.
Only those whose cards were of the
same color stayed in. When all were
satisfied, unretired players totaled
the values of their cards, and high
man won both stakes and deal. The
money, which could be won or lost
swiftly, was the chief excitement.

Stover carried a sheaf of value-
notes in his pouch, most of them in
thousand-unit denominations. Enter-
ing the game, he lost twice and then
won a big pot and the deal. As he
distributed the cards, the radio music

ceased.

"Late news," said an announcer's
voice, and the vision-screen across the
room lighted up.

UPON it, huge and stern, appeared
a man's head and uniformed

shoulders. Congreve !

"We're cutting in to enlist the help
of all law-abiding listeners," said Con-
greve's magnified voice, and all play
ceased as attentions turned to him.
"Yesterday a murder occurred in the
upper tower section. Mace Malbrook

combine, That's where the dough is
on Mars. Every year the rates get
higher and the demand bigger. Twenty
thousand units, invested now — "

"Listen to the description," growled
a man tersely.

" — twenty-three years old, very
large and strong," Congreve was say-
ing. "Six-feet-three, Earth measure-
ment. Terrestrial weight, about two
hundred pounds, Martian weight,
about eighty. Smooth-shaven, blond
hair, strong features. Well educated,
a scientist, pleasing personality. Es-
caped in clothes stolen from police."
"He sounds like a television hero,"
breathed a girl in the crowd,

"To supplement this description, I
will exhibit a late photograph of Dil-
lon Stover, accused of the murder of
Mace Malbrook."

Congreve's hand rose into view, with
a rectangular piece of board. The
vision-screen concentrated upon it,
making it larger and clearer until it
filled the entire screen, showing a
vivid color-photo, taken three days
before. Stover showed erect, tall, smil-
ing and carefree. He was wearing
his golden costume, which seemed
doubly bright on the screen. The girl
who had spoken before now gave vent
to a whistle as of admiration.
"What a prince »" she cried.
Congreve's face returned. "I thank
you," he said. The screen darkened,
and the music resumed.

The rest was momentarily drowned
by a chorus of cries. Everyone had
heard of Malbrook, Then silence
again.

** — but the murderer escaped," Con-
greve was informing whatever worlds
might hear. "Every officer is search-
ing for him, and a reward of twenty
thousand value-units is being offered
by Mr. Gillan Fielding, partner of the
murdered man, for any information
leading to the capture of—"

"Twenty thou!" ejaculated a man
near Stover. "I'd like to pick that up.
I'd open a dive like this myself."

"Not me," chimed in someone else.
"I'd try to buy into the water monop-
oly run by the Malbrook-Fielding

CHAPTER VI
The Girt in the Game-Dive

AT ONCE a hubbub of chatter
broke out. People of the middle-
class section of Pulambar were far
noisier and more easily entertained
than the bored sophisticates of the
High-tower Set. Stover steadied his
hands, completing the deal.

"Play cards," he said.

The man beside him looked at him
sharply. "You know, stranger, to
judge from that description, you
might be the guy they're after,"

"I was thinking the same thing,"
nodded Stover. "I'm about that size

STARTLING STORIES

and age, and blond. Maybe I ought
to turn myself in for the reward. Who
wants cards on second deal?"

"But the picture killed it," went on
the man beside him. "That bird in
gold wasn't anything like you*"

"Personally, I thought he looked
like a sissy," grunted Stover.

He lost the next hand, cashed in and
casually left the table. The brief
interlude of play had helped to calm
and encourage him. He was free and
lost from pursuit, with a plan of cam-
paign beginning to form. He went
toward the door.

"Wait, big man," said a clear voice
behind him. It was the girl who had
admired his photograph on the vision
screen. She was compact but comely,
with red-dyed hair and a flashing
smile. "Where are you going?"

"Your way," replied Stover prompt-
ly, feeling that a girl on his arm would
be additional disguise.

They went out together, approach-
ing a series of doors that were marked
ELEVATORS, but she drew him
away.

"Come along," she said. "I know
an express that will drop us straight
to the canal level."

"Just what I want," said Stover
quite truthfully, and let her lead him
along a side-corridor. At the end was
a metal door. "What's your name?"
he asked her, to make conversation.

"Call me Gerda," she said. "Enter.
And what shall I call you?"

"Parker," he improvised. They came
into a small, messy-walled room with
one barred window and a telephone in
a niche. "Here, Gerda, where's the
elevator? And don't dig your elbow
into me like that."

She laughed. "There's no elevator,
and this isn't my elbow. It's a gun."
He sprang away, and the weapon
rose in her hand, a vicious electro-
automatic. She handled it with a
forbidding ease. Her other hand
slipped shut the catch on the door.

"Don't try anything suicidal," she
bade him. "You're my prisoner, Dillon
Stover. That fake dumb stare won't
help, I've seen several photos of you
besides that one on the televiso. and I
had you spotted as soon as you walked
into the game-dive."

"You were sent after me?" de-
manded Stover, giving up the farce.

"A regiment of us were. We knew
you hadn't gone far. It was my luck
to run across you/'
^ "Congratulations," said Stover.
'But the police will be more flattering
than I." 5

The girl who called herself Gerda
shook her red-dyed head. "Congratu-
lations are nice.. But I know someone
who will pay for you with something
besides congratulations and twenty
thousand value-units."

"Who?" snapped Stover, for he
knew she meant the murderer.

"You'll see soon enough," she told
him with one of her bright smiles, and
put her free hand on the telephone.

"Wait," he begged. "You speak of
cash. More than the twenty thousand
value-units the police offer. How much
more?"

"Oh," said Gerda, her eyes wise
above the leveled gun. "At least half
as much again."

"I'll double it," said Stover, and
she drew her hand back from the
telephone. "May I take the money
from my belt-pouch?"

SHE nodded permission, and he
produced his notes. With what
he had won at indemnity, he had a
little more than the forty thousand
he had offered. Counting off the sur-
plus, he folded it and began to return
it to his pouch.

"Wait," said Gerda greedily. "I'll
take the whole thing."

Stover reluctantly surrendered all
his money. She took it, thrust it into
her own pouch. Then without lower-
ing her gun, she caught his out-
stretched left hand in hers. A quick
movement and she had snapped some-
thing on his wrist,

"Bracelet," she said. "Police brace-
let. Isn't it pretty?"

Stover lifted his arm, staring at the
thing. It was a plain circlet of nickeled
steel, with a hinge and a lock. It bore
a spherical device with a dial. From
that sphere came a soft whirring
sound.

"What's it for?" demanded Stover,
angrily.

Gerda chuckled above her gun,

DEVIL'S PLANET

"Police bracelet," she said again. "It
has a radio apparatus tuned to the
waves of police headquarters. You
don't feel anything now, but if you
go, say, ten miles from here, your
whole body will vibrate to the ampli-
fied waves, as though you were being
subjected to a heavy rush of current.
The farther you go, the more drastic
and painful the effect. Fifty miles
away, you'd be done for — your nervous
system tortured to death."

She picked up the telephone and
called a number.

"This is Gerda," she said into the
transmitter. "You know — police un-
dercover detail. I have somebody
you're interested in."

"You're taking my money and now
you're selling me to the police!" cried
Stover in sudden comprehension.
Gerda merely smiled at him.
"Wait," she said into the instru-
ment, and then to Stover : "Not to the
police. To somebody who will pay
more. I only put the bracelet on to
prevent any accident. Try to get
away from me, and you'll not get far.
Now, stand easy — I haven't finished
phoning,"
She turned back to the instrument.
"You heard his voice," she cooed
into the phone. "Is your price still
offered? Then come at once to

Stover made a frenzied leap. An
electro-automatic pellet zipped its
way through his tousled hair even as
he twisted the weapon away. Tucking
Gerda's struggling body under one
arm, he seized the telephone.

"This is Stover," he grated into it.
"While this she-rat of yours bragged,
I jumped her and took her gun away.
I'll get you next. Who is this?"
A gasp over the wire. That was all.
"Then I'll come and get you with-
out any help. You killed Malbrook,
didn't you? You want to kill me be-
fore the law learns I'm innocent, don't
you? But it won't work! Don't count
your Dillon Stovers before they're
dead and buried. Good-by until we
meet for the showdown!"

He hung up, thrusting the captured
gun into his tunic. Despite Gerda's
frantic resistance, he coolly repos-
sessed the money she had taken from
him. Finally he bound her hands with

her own belt and gagged her with a
strip torn from her skirt. She glared
above the gag.

"Good-by, my bewitching little
doublecrosser," he bade her. "Stick to
stool-pigeoning. The police will back
you — if they don't catch you cheating.
I'm going to catch the blundering
killer you tried to sell me to."

"You'll never get away," she raged,
managing to spit out through the gag.
"That bracelet will bring you crawl-
ing back here."

"I won't wear it long," he said grim-
ly. "It looks smashable."

"Try to cut or smash it," she dared,
"There'll be an explosion that will
tear your arm off at the shoulder.
You'll not live through that. I'll be
seeing you soon, big man — seeing you
on your knees!"

"Don't hold your breath until then,"
he answered curtly.

Unfastening the door, he left, went
down the hall and came to a corridor
which led to an exit, Moored there
was a speedy-looking rocket flyer. He
sprang in, turned on the power, and
sailed up and away.

LIKE most young men of his day,
Dillon Stover understood very
well the workings of rocket craft.
This purloined one-seater was not the
newest model, but it was serviceable.
He felt sudden elation. Nobody knew
his jumping-off place save the under-
cover girl, Gerda. By the time she
escaped even that faint trail would
be lost. She would think twice about
warning the police. If she appealed
only to the unknown killer, and if
that unknown killer came seeking him,
Stover would like nothing better.

"First," he decided, "I must get to
another town and pose there under a
new name and personality. I'll dope
out this thing, maybe make a deal
with some law-enforcement body that
isn't too friendly with Congreve and
the Malbrook-Fielding combine —
hello, this rocket isn't any too well

STARTLING STORIES

hung together at that. I feel a funny
vibration all up my left arm. Must
come from the fuel-feed lever."

He took his hand from the fuel-feed
lever. The vibration still quivered his
left arm, climbed and crawled into his
shoulder and chest.

"Whup!" said Stover aloud. "It's
that bracelet !"

Gerda, whatever her shortcomings,
had spoken the plain truth regarding
this bit of police equipment. At ten
, miles, she had warned, his body would
be shaken as by a heavy rush of cur-
rent. The vibration now possessed
his whole body, and Stover felt sick.
The car swayed and bucked under
his ill-steadied controls, and he right-
ed it with an effort.

"This can't go on!" he muttered.
*T11 set her down on the sand — I'm
well outside the city — and see if I
can't squirm out of that bracelet.' 1

He nosed down, but his run of bad
luck was well in. In descending, he
went still farther from the police
headquarters radio. In mid-flight,
nausea possessed him. His sight went
black, his brain whirled and drummed.
With one hand he strove to flatten
out his flight for a landing, but the
other — the hand that wore the brace-
let — refused to do its work. There
was a shock, a crash of sound, and
Dillon Stover flew through the air
like a football. He fell sprawling in
dry, powdery sand.

On Earth, where his weight was
more than double what it was on Mars,
he probably would not have risen from
such a heavy fall. As it was, he rose
very shakily. The wrecked rocket was
aflame. Overhead beamed the lights
of other aircraft speeding to investi-
gate.

"Got to get away from here," he
told himself groggily. "Get away—"
He headed out into the desert. His
feet sank into the dry sand as into
fresh snow. The vibrations from the
bracelet still tingled in his arm and
chest, made his lungs pant and his
heart race; but, on the ground and
walking, they were more endurable.
The fall had made his nose bleed, and
somehow this relieved his distress for
the time being. He walked on, on.
His lesser Martian weight made trav-

el swift for his Earth-trained mus-
cles, for all the binding sand around
his insteps and ankles.

Behind him the lights of rocket
craft were settling around the fire.
He hoped that their landings in the
sand would obscure his footprints.
Meanwhile, he wished that he had a
drink, about a two-quart swig of wa-
ter, such as Buckalew had given to
the desert Martians.

Stover had not taken a drink since
before his trip to Malbrook's. The
liquid of his prison meal had been
used to disguise him. And this arid
place, far away from the city of Pul-
ambar and its lake-evaporations, was
drying, dehydrating, even in the chil-
ly Martian night.

E made the best of two miles'
journey away from the investi-
gators, then stopped. Overhead hur-
tled the disc of Phobos, giving him
light whereby to examine the brace-
let that dealt him so much misery. It
was not too tight upon his wrist. He
poked a finger under it, twiddled it,
then tugged.

A red-hot pain shot through his
forearm, as though all his joints were
being dislocated. He hastily took his
finger away. Again he remembered
the baleful words of Gerda: It will
tear your arm off at the shoulder.
Better let bad enough alone. Mean-
while, what wouldn't he give for a
drink?

Trudging onward, he pondered, de-
spite his efforts to turn his mind else-
where, on drinkables. Cold lemonade
on the kitchen table at his grand-
father's home, a stein of beer at col-
lege, water trickling down a rock-face
at Rogers, Arkansas, the multitudi-
nous beverages at the Zaarr — even the
acid drink he had used for his dis-
guise at the prison. He tried to curse
such thoughts away, but his voice was
thick and his tongue swollen.

Stover was scientist enough to un-
derstand all this. The atmosphere of
Mars was light, one-third that of
Earth. Plenty of oxygen made it
fairly breathable, but it was hungry
for water. Mars had so little water to
give, and that little did not stay long
— the lesser gravity could not hold

DEVIL'S PLANET

water vapor. And so, as the moisture
in his body was sweated forth, it was
fairly snatched from him. He was
dehydrating, like a prune or a date in
a Sahara breeze, like a clay brick in
a kiln.

Thirst was making him forget the
lesser agony of the bracelet,

"I'd give up anything for a drink,"
he thought. "A thousand dollars of
my legacy; My house in the Ozarks,
that once belonged to my grandfather.
I'd give up — but hold on. As a crimi-
nal I have no property to give up.
Who would help me, if anyone were
here? Buckalew? I wonder. Phogor?
I doubt it. Bee MacGowan? Poor
thing, she'd probably do what she
could for me. But how long can this
go on?"

Not long. For soon Dillon Stover
fell on his face.

He struggled up to his hands and
knees. More than ever he was down
to first principles, a four-legged crea-
ture again, as man had been ages ago,
before civilization or even savagery,
struggling for life against the bitter-
est of environment.

He didn't intend to be killed, un-
justly or otherwise. It wasn't on the
books. Not for Dillon Stover. He
managed to get up again. His tongue
was swollen between dry lips, his
stout knees wavered under his weight
that seemed even more than Earth
weight. But he'd get away from pur-
suit. And he'd drink.

Water ahead!

Both moons were up now, and they
showed him a gleaming, rippling pool.
With trees on the far side. He gave a
joyful croak, and tried to run toward
it. Again he fell forward and crawled
painfully to the brink.

There was no brink.

Mirage. Or imagination. Dillon
Stover would have wept, but there
were no tears in his evaporated eyes.
He sat, elbows on knees, and struck
his forehead with his knuckles,

A LITTLE recovery now, enough
to know that the bracelet's vi-
bration was increased to a sharp
agony. He had come miles away from
Pulambar. Suddenly he wished he
were back, even in jail. After all, there

was comfort there, a bed to lie in, and
doctors — and water. The Martians
were right to prize it. If he could
only wet his lips and wash his eyes.
Then he'd think a way out for him-
self.

The sun was going to come up.

That would be the end. The dry
Martian night had almost done for
him j the blazing sun would finish the
job. Perhaps it was just as well to
lie down and die as quickly as pos-
sible. In the back of his head a little
cluster of scientific-thinking cells
computed that his night in this desert
approximated five days of such an ex-
perience on Earth. Few people could
survive that, even if they were as
strong as Dillon Stover, and got help
at the eleventh hour. And here was
no help.

Wasn't there? He saw a shiny,
semi-transparent blister among the
sands, catching the first rays of dawn.

Under that would be Martians, a
water plant — and water. Ever so little
of the precious stuff would be a bless-
ing.

He crawled there somehow. Re-
membering how the Martians inside
a similar structure had burrowed out
to the jug Buckalew donated, Stover
began to paw and dig with his hands.
The sand came away in great scooped
masses. He got his head and shoulders
under the glassiike under-rim, poked
like a mole into the interior.

Something crept toward him, a
Martian dweller. It had one of the
artificial larynxes, for it formed
words he could understand;

"Who arre you? Why do you
darre — "

"My name is Stover," he whispered
a wretched reply. "Dillon Stover. I
am dying without water. Help me.
Just—"

And he fainted.

So this was heaven.

The old talk about harps and songs
and jeweled furniture had been
wrong. It was more like the Zaarr,
that report. Heaven really consisted
in lying still in delicious dampness,
with a ten-times blessed trickle of
liquid into your open mouth.

Stover's eyes, no longer dried out,
opened. And he saw heaven as well

STARTLING STORIES

as felt it. The dull-clouded inside of
a semi-transparent dome, against
which spread the long branches and
broad leaves of a blue-gray bush was
above him, while around him sprawled
three bladder-bodied, six-tentacled,
flower-faced Martians.

"Lie sstill," purred the one with
an artificial voice-box, "You arre
verry ssick — nearr to death."

"I m not," protested Stover, and sat
up.

His dusty garments, stolen in a
police dressing-room, had been re-
moved. His naked skin felt cool,
moist, and relaxed. He touched his
arm with a finger. There was a sleek
damp to it, like the damp of a frog.

"Lie sstill," said the Martian spokes-
man again. "If you do not f earr ssick-
ness, fearr then the coming of a
ssearrch parrty."

Stover lay back at once in the neat
sandy hollow where they had bedded
him. "Are they looking for me?" he
asked anxiously.

THE flowery head of his informant
nodded, Terrestrial fashion.
"Thrree timess they have come herre
to peerr in. We ssaw them coming,
and each time we coverred you with
ssand to hide you. We told them we
knew nothing of a fugitive Terrress-
trrial. A wind blew away yourr
trrackss."

Stover was content to He still now.
"How long have I been here?" he
asked.

"A day and a night. It iss now the
ssecond forrenoon."

Back into Stover's wakening mind
floated memory of all that had trans-
pired to bring him here. So it was
getting on toward noon. Three noons
ago he had awakened in Buckalew's
luxurious apartment, reckless and
carefree. At noon the following day,
he had been in the police cell, again
sleeping. When the third noon came,
he had lain senseless in this poor
makeshift den where Martians hud-
dled to keep life in themselves. And
now —

"I'll be awake this noon," he said
aloud. "I've got a lot of escaping to
do." To the Martian he said : "Which
way is the nearest city? Besides

Pulambar, I mean."

A tentacle pointed away. "But you
cannot travel by day, on foot and un-
derr the ssun. Wait until night. We
sshall help you then."

Once again Stover took a look
about. He saw whence had come the
trickle into his mouth. One of those
drinking tubes had been thrust into
the integument of a great branch
above him. Since he was awake, the
tip of the tube had been thriftily
plugged. But he felt dry again, and
as though reading that thought in his
mind, the Martian who did the talk-
ing removed the plug.

"Drrink," he bade Stover, and Sto-
ver drank.

He pulled strongly on the tube, and
a delicious spurt of plant-juice, free-
flowing and pleasantly tart-sweet,
filled his mouth. What joy to drink!
What relief, what privilege.

He stopped sucking all at once.

"Plug that up," he commanded.
"Isn't it very precious, that juice?
How is there enough for me and for
you others, too?"

Something like a deprecating
chuckle came from his attendant, "Do
not ssay the worrd 'enough*, Dillon
Sstover. On Marrss, therre iss no
ssuch worrd ass 'enough'."

"You've been depriving yourselves
to take care of me!" Stover marveled,
almost accusingly. "Why? I'm a
stranger, a vagabond, wanted by
police, charged with murder."

CHAPTER VIII
The Hope of mJPs

HE was suddenly aware that an-
other dreadful pain was miss-
ing, the racking vibration of the
bracelet. He lifted his left hand.
The skin of it was scraped, broken in
places, but the wrist was naked. The
sinister metal ring was gone.

"How did you get it off of me?" he
asked. "It was due to explode if you
tinkered with it."

"And sso we did not tinkerr with
it," was the calm reply. "Firrsst, a
grreasse to make yourr hand and

DEVIL'S PLANET

wrrisst verry sslipperry — then carre-
ful prrying and tugging. We got the
brracelet off without injurring it. We
know how to deal with ssuch thingss.
One of uss crrept forrth and laid the
brracelet on the ssand fair frrom
herre. It was picked up ass a clue
by police ssearcherrs."

Dillon Stover sighed gratefully.
Not only was he free of an awful
agony, but there would now be no fol-
lowing of him by those who hunted

him.

"I started to ask you," he resumed,
"why you helped a stranger, a Terres-
trial fugitive from the law, to so great
an extent.* 1

"You arre Dillon Sstoverr," said the
Martian simply. "Beforrc you lost
yourr ssenssess, you told uss yourr
name."

STOVER looked his mystification.
"But what difference — "

A tentacle pointed to a little niche
across the dome-den. There nestled
a shabby old radio, near which the
other two Martians sprawled. The
thing only whispered, but they were
getting news of the universe.

"We have communicationss," the
one with the voice-box told Stover*
"We know what befell you in Pulam-
barr, what charrge iss made by the
officiates. But we know, alsso, why
you came herre — to do the worrk be-
gun by yourr grrandfatherx/*

"The work of my grandfather," re-
peated Stover. He had almost for-
gotten it. "You mean the condenser-
ray?"

"Yess. The hope of Marrss.

Stover had recovered enough to tell
himself savagely that he had become
short-sighted, selfish, craven. The
Martian was right. He, Dillon Sto-
ver, meant the sole chance of a dying
world for a new lease on life. He was
fleeing for more than his own life.

"I know so little/* he pleaded. "Fve
been here only three days, and for
most of that time Fve been running
from both police and law-breakers. I
have now a better idea of what water
means to this planet, but — *

"Come, if you arre strrong enough/'
bade his helper.

Stover got up, having to stoop be-

neath the low dome, and made his
way to the radio. Quickly the Mar-
tian turned on the television power,
and a small screen lighted up. Ten-
tacles turned dials.

Stover saw a gently rolling plain,
grown over with hardy, tufty scrub,
the chief vegetation of Mars. From it
rose a vast and blocky structure, acres
in extent. The construction seemed
to be of massive concrete or plastic,
reenforced by joinings and bands of
metal. As the viewpoint of the tele-
vision made the building grow larger
and nearer by degrees, Stover saw
that it had no visible doors or other
apertures. Along walks at the top,
and around railed ways at the bottom,
walked armed Martian guards in
brace-harness to hold them upright.
The roof bristled with ray-throwers
and electro-automatic guns*

"A fort?" said Stover. "I thought
Mars was at peace everywhere/'

"Therre iss no peace in the conflict
with drrought," his informant told
him. "You ssee yonderr a rresser-
voirr. It holdss a gatherring of the
mosst prreciouss thing on thiss planet
— waterr/*

"It has to be guarded like that?"
"Ssurrely. People would rrisk any-
thing to ssteal a little— only a little.
The only frree waterr on all thiss
worrld iss in the guarrded and rre-
sstricted city of Pulambar, frrom
which you have fled."

The dial clicked, another scene
showed itself. Stover saw a building
with open front before which huddled
and crept a line of wretched Martians.
Each presented a document to an offi-
cial. Each was grudgingly handed
a small container, no larger than a
cup. Stover turned his head away.
With a sympathetic purr, his com-
panion turned the radio off.

"Water-lines," muttered Stover.
"Guarded reservoirs. Little camps like
this— and nobody has enough water.
Malbrook, who held the monopoly,
did this to Mars/'

"You sserrved uss well by killing
him/' said the Martian. "Come, I
wissh to dampen yourr sskin again.

E would not take no for an
answer. An application of the

STARTLING STORIES

plant-juice refreshed Stover's thirsty
body all over.

"Do not thank uss," deprecated the
Martian. "We do thiss becausse, to
rrepeat mysself, you arre the hope
of Marrss. By deprriving ourr-
sselvess of waterr rrationss today,
we arre prreparring you forr the
tassk of winning uss plenty in the
futurre."

"You're trying not to be noble,"
Stover smiled. "But what if I miss
out? If I'm caught, or killed, or if
I try to develop the ray and can't?"

"We sshall have played forr high
sstakess, and losst."

Stover found his clothing, neatly
folded away, and began to struggle
into it. 6&

"When nightfall comes, I go," he
announced.

"The besst rref uge among the nearr
townss— " began his rescuer,

"I'm going back to Pulambar," said
Stover grimly.

All three Martians turned toward
him silently. They had no human
eyes, yet he had the sense of being
stared at, b

"I mean it," he insisted. "Pulam-
bar s the place. The lights will guide
me, and this stuff on my skin will
keep me from drying out too soon,
I can get by the outer guards, because
Im Terrestrial with money in my
pocket. I've got to find the real killer
and first put myself in the clear.' 1

"Then?" prompted the Martian
with the voice-box.

"Then," and Stover's voice rang like
a bell inside the little dome, "I'm go-
ing to perfect that condenser-ray. I
was wrong to want to play around
first. Buckalew was right to keep
after me. You've shown me a duty I
can t turn away from. That killer in
Pulambar had better hold onto his
hat, because I'm going to smack him
right out from under it!"

ONCE more back on the bright
_ ^ streets of Pulambar, Stover
akirted a building and came to a canal
crossing full of music and carnival.
Entrance to the city had been quite
as easy as he had figured. No one
had dreamed that the fugitive would
circle back. He halted now to con-

sider his next step.

A mortised gondola of the cabin
type bore a yapping loud-speaker
urging all to join a sight-seeing tour.
Stover joined the welter of honey-
mooners, space-hands, clerks on holi-
day and similar rubberneckers, A
crowd like that made good disguise,
and the gondola would take him to a
certain definite jumping-off place for
his newly chosen goal.

He sat back in a shadowy corner of
the vehicle. The guide lectured elo-
quently as he clamped shut the ports
and took them on a brief dive to show
the underwater foundations of Pul-
ambar, fringed with the rare lakeweed
that was to be seen nowhere else on
Mars. Stover remembered yet again
how Buckalew had exhorted him— it
seemed centuries before — to work
hard for the salvation of Mars by the
condenser ray.

Peering from his port, he saw the
enclosing water, only a saucerf ul com-
pared to the oceans of Earth, but here
a curiosity and a luxury. He remem-
bered, too, how he had seen in the
television a desert where dammed and
covered reservoirs were guarded by
armed Martian troops as the most
precious treasure-vaults of the planet.
He brought back to mind the pitiful
folk of other Martian communities,
who must deny themselves everything
to pay the rates for only a tiny super-
vised trickle of the fluid which was
life to them. All this he could obviate
if he finished the ray mechanism— if
he ever had a chance to finish it.

"I may die from something worse
than water shortage if I don't look
sharp/' he told himself.

In his role of tourist, he achieved an
appearance of attention as a lens-
window in the roof was set so that
the gaping tourists might look their
fill upon the magnified disk of crystal
rock that was the hurtling moon
Phobos. He did his best to seem
casual as they approached the sixth
or seventh public building for a super-
vised inspection.

"Architecture bureau," announced
the guide, impressively as though it
were something he himself had
planned and created. "Pulambar be-
longs as you know, to one great group

DEVIL'S PLANET

4:;

of interests. Every building, small
and great, rich and simple, must be
maintained by that company, Pul-
ambar being Pulambar, everything
must stay at its best and most beauti-
ful. No repairs are skimped or de-
layed anywhere. Look about you!"

LEAVING the gondola, they en-
tered a lofty room fitted as a
main office. Around the sides were
desks at which workers mostly Mar-
tians, toiled at reports or instruments.
Tourist parties being frequent here,
no attention was paid to the intruders.
The guide marshaled his charges
around an alterlike stand in the cen-
ter of the floor, on which glowed some-
thing that at first glance seemed a
luminous birthday cake with myriad
candles. A second look revealed an
exquisitely made miniature of a group
of buildings. "A model of Pulambar,"
breathed someone, but the guide
laughed in lofty negation.

"It's a three-dimensional reflection,
an image. Here, focused by an intri-
cate system of televiso rays, is an
actual miniature image of the city.
Observe the detail of buildings and
towers. Look closely and you will
see actual movement of gondolas on
the little canals, and flying specks in
the upper levels, denoting aircraft."

It was so. The sightseers stared
raptly. Even Stover, his mind filled
with other things, was impressed.

"If we could see microscopically,"
went on the guide, "we'd even make
out ourselves standing inside this

building. And yet this is only an
image, a concentration of light rays."
To demonstrate, he passed his hand
through the gleaming structure.
"This miniature keeps before the at-
tention of the Bureau the city's state
of affairs, showing if anything is
wrong in building or service. For
instance — "

His forefinger hovered above one
of the tiny towers, a jewel-delicate
upward thrust. Malbrook's tower!

"See that bright point of light?
Something is wrong. And," the guide's
voice shifted to a dramatic bass, "it
happens to be something of grim
tragedy. That, my friends, is the spot
where the awful explosion-slaying of
Mace Malbrook took place recently.
The speck of brilliance shows that
repairs are needed there. This is to
be done right away — now that the
police relinquish the place,"

The tourists hung on his words.
Stover glanced to a bulletin screen,
where work-details were posted. It
was as he hoped. Halfway down were
three words:

MALBROOK TOWER— GIRRA

Malbrook's tower was to be serviced
by a worker named Girra. The time
waB posted, too : tomorrow morning,
very early. The rest of Stover's prob-
lem solved itBelf very easily.

The boredom of the. desk-workers
helped. None saw him slip away from
the tourist throng at an opportune
time, dart into a dark doorway and

[Turn page]

Asthma Mucus Loosened
First Day for Thousands

Do recurring attacks of Branchial Asthma make you
choke, strangle and gasp for breath? Are you bothered
so bad sum** nights that you can't sleep? Do you cough
and cough trying to raise thick strangling mucus, and
strain so hard you fear rupture? Are some attacks so
bad you feel weak, unable to work? Are you afraid of
colds^exposure and certain foods?

No matter how lung you have suffered or what you
have tried, we believe there is good news and palliative
hope for you In a splendid medicine which was origin-
ally a doctor's prescription but that is now available to
sufferers at all drug stores under the name of IWenduco.

3f*nditco usually works very rapidly because it con-
tain! ingredients Intended to help nature loosen thick,
strangling excess mucus. And you know from your
own experience if you can just raise that strangling

phlegm you can sleep well, breathe deeply of God's
fresh air and not feel like there was an Iron baud
around your cheat crushing out your very life.

Money Back Guarantee

Mendaco is not a dope, smoke, Injection or spray,
but Is In pleasant, tasteless tablets. Formula on every
package. In fact Menduco has proved such a great
palliative success for thousands suffering recurring
choking, strangling symptoms of Bronchial Asthma
that a printed guarantee with each package insures an
immediate refund of your money on return of empty
package unless you are completely satisfied. Under this
money back guarantee you have everything to gain
and nothing to lose, so ask your druggist for Mendaao
today and put it to the test. Only 40c.

STARTLING STORIES

down into the lower regions of the re-
pair department.

Here, along a bench, sat metallic,
grotesque figures — robots off duty.
Each bore on its chestf-plate a switch
by which the mechanical semblance
of life could be turned off and 'con-
served when the robot was not in use.
Here, too, were benches with racks of
tools, stacks of spare parts. Stover,
who knew machinery well, went to
work confidently. Selecting a wrench,
he examined robot after robot, seeking
the one which bore the name, in Mar-
tian and Terrestrial characters: Girra.
He found it.

This was Girra's helper. As its mas-
ter was off duty, so also was this
robot. Quickly Stover unbolted its
front, and from inside the torso un-
shipped great quantities of springs,
wires, wheels and other works, rapidly
distributing them in the proper heaps
of spare parts. When he had com-
pletely emptied the shell, even to the
big mittenlike hands, he got into it
as though it were indeed the suit of
ancient armor it so resembled.

He had trouble clasping the jointed
arm and leg pieces and the helmetlike
head upon himself, but he finally man-
aged. Then he loosened the radium
lamp from its frontal fastenings a bit,
to give himself a little space through
which to see. At last he sat on the
bench to await the Martian who owned
this robot.

CHAPTER IX
Scene of the Crime

THE police officer on duty in Mace
Malbrook's reception hall made
disgusted gestures to quiet all his in-
terrogates.

"Now there's another of you pests
at the door," he groaned. "Why can't
regulations keep a murder spot from
being all cluttered up with High-tower
people who wangle special passes?"

He crossed to the door and opened
it. Thank heaven, this is somebody
with legitimate business," he growled,

"Right," said the Martian outside.
"I am Girra, from Arrchitecturre

Burreau, come to ssurrvey damage
and esstimate rrepairrs. Alsso my
helperr."

"I was told to admit only one man,"
said the officer. "Your helper must
go back,"

Girra snorted in the midst of the
petal-like foliage that covered his
cranium. "My helperr iss a rrobot, not
a man." His tentacle gestured to
where, behind him, towered a tall,
jointed figure of silvery-plated metal.
"All right/' granted the officer, and
stepped out of the way.

In waddled Girra, and behind him
stumped the grotesquely human struc-
ture, its jointed arms loaded with in-
struments, tool-cases and notebooks.
Robots were too common in Pulambar
for this one to attract much attention.
When Girra and his companion had
entered the wrecked chamber, Rey-
nardine Phogor was first of the four
visitors to speak again.

"Mace constantly mentioned a will,"
she told the officer. "It's here some-
where, and it leaves me a controlling
interest in his affairs. As his intended
wife, I have a right to search for it.
That explosion couldn't have blown it
out of existence. Perhaps — " And
she glared across at Brome Fielding.
"If you suggest that I destroyed it
for any purpose — " began Fielding.
"Oh, short it," pleaded the officer.
"All requests or complaints must be
made to Special Agent Congreve. I
told you he'd be here any time."

"Then why doesn't he hurry?"
rumbled Phogor from his seat beside
his stepdaughter.

The fourth civilian visitor, Amyas
Crofts, kept silent. He looked more
haggard than ever, and more savage.
All these things Stover saw and
heard through his robot disguise. He
tried to assimilate every word, at the
same time being helpful to Girra and
maintaining his machine impersona-
tion. It was a difficult task, but he
succeeded.

His previous visit to Malbrook's
apartment had been too full of stress
and excitement. Only now was he
able to observe and estimate.

The room, made cube-form of metal,
was bulged in all directions as though
it had tried to become spherical.

DEVIL'S PLANET

Only the strength of its material and
fastenings had kept it from ripping
to shreds. As to that, only the solid-
ity of the door-panel had saved
Stover's own life. The furniture was
badly wrecked, even its metal frames
being twisted and splintered. Prrala,
decided Stover, had been able to live
for a few more moments only because
Malbrook must have been standing
between him and — and what?

The killer must have been tall,
blond, and dressed in gold, to have
been identified as himself. Stover
scowled perplexedly inside the metal
cranium of his disguise.

GIRRA was investigating a round
hole, little more than thumb-size,
on the forward wall. "Ssmall
wrrench," he ordered, shooting out a

tentacle.

Stover found the desired tool in a
box and passed it over. With it
Girra loosened the device, the mouth-
rim of a ventilator tube. Inside was
a tiny fan to blow enough air through
so small an orifice. The tube itself
was left whole behind the damaged
wall, for it would not pull out.

"Rray," commanded Girra, and
Stover found him a metal-solvent ray
projector. Skillfully Girra cut away
an area of the plating.

The ventilator was revealed, a down-
curved tube, like the trap of a lava-
tory. At the lowest point was one or
Malbrook's protective devices, a liquid
solvent for any poisonous or smother-
ing gas. Girra tested it by thrusting
in a flexible probe, which came out

wet.

u Ventiiatorr iss in good orrderr," he

announced.

As he turned away to other surveys,
Stover dared move close to the open-
ing and investigate for himself. The
ventilator, he saw, fastened to another
tube that led through the outer plat-
ing to Malbrook's hall.

" Why do you loiterr therre? Girra
was demanding. "Iss ssomething

wrrong?"

Too late, Stover realized that robot
helpers are supposed to be above
curiosity or individuality of any kind.
If Girra considered that something
was faulty in his mechanism and

started to remove a plate to rectify it
—but the Martian, coming toward him,
was suddenly attracted to the piece of
plating he had cut away from the wall
and which now swung loose by the
rim-attachment of the ventilator tube.
"What iss thiss sstain?" he asked
aloud. "It sseemss local. The patrrol
chemisstss have overlooked it. Chemi-
cal kit!"

Stover handed the kit over. Girra
daubed on some liquids, stirred and
fumbled, noted the reaction, and made
another slurred pronouncement:

"A carrbohydrrate of peculiar prro-
porrtion. A ssynthetic that apprroxi-
matess Terrresstrrial rrubberr. Melted
elasscoid, perrhapss." He confronted
Stover. "Now, then, rrepeat back to
me thesse findingss."

Evidently the work-robot also
served as a sort of stenographer, re-
ceiving spoken words and keeping
them like notes on a dictograph.
Stover had listened with both his
hidden ears, and was able to comply.
"Ventilator in good order," he re-
peated. "Stain of carbohydrate re-
sembling synthetic rubber, probably

elascoid."

But he was unable to duplicate
Girra's Martian accent with its
doubled s and r sounds. Girra was
half-intrigued, half-upset.

"Have thosse Burreau mechaniss
fiddled with yourr sspeech-vibrra-
torr?" he demanded.

"They have fiddled," replied Stover

' on inspiration, thankful that his voice

echoed inside the metal-headpiece like

that of the average speaking robot. ^

"Then they sshall hearr frrom me,
promised Girra balefully. "Only I
sshall sserrvice my helperr herre-
afterr ." He turned back to his work.
"All innerr plating of thiss aparrt-
ment to be rremovcd and rreplaced.
Lessserr injurriess may have affected
adjoining aparrtmentss. Come.

THEY returned to the outer hall.
Girra paused to examine the door-
way from which the panel had been

blown away.

"New jamb needed herre, he an-
nounced. "Had not that rroom been
sso sstrongly made, thiss whole tower r
might have been wrrecked."

STARTLING STORIES

Stover should have been paying at-
tention like a good robot, but at that
moment new figures entered. Con-
greve came first, grim and trim and
masterful. Behind him came Buck-
alew in brown velvet-faced tunic and
half-boots, sober-faced and a trifle
worried in manner. The four visitors
all started toward Congreve at once.

Mace Malbrook's will—" began
Keynardine.

"My stepdaughter's interests

»^l ed r Ph ° g0r at the same time -
Chief, these High-tower swells are

driving me-" complained the officer
on guard.

"If you haven't recaptured Stover
by this time—" threatened Fielding.

All this made deafening confusion.
Throwing up his hands, Congreve
tairly roared a command for silence.
it ^tell, and he spoke coldly.

"I told Stover himself, before he
escaped, that you idle-richers had
things too much your own way, and
that I was going to show, in this case,
that the law is some steps higher than
money. If any of you think you're
running this show for me you're
wrong. I don't know what authorities
got you passes to this place, but I
declare them no good.

i ", Yo J Ur r interests al I around will be
looked after to the best ability of the
police department, but none of you
are more important than the capture
and punishment of the murderer.
Now get out, all of you except Buck-
aiew.

"How does Buckalew enjoy a privi-
lege that's denied us?" wrathfully
bellowed Phogor.

"It's not a privilege," replied Con-
greve with a frosty smile. "If it will
help clear this place, I will inform
you that he s under suspicion as Stov-
er s friend and host, and unable to ex-
plain his whereabouts on the night of
the killing."

Amyas Crofts, who had not joined
the confusion, now addressed Con-
greve. "Are you aware, sir, that Miss
MacGowan has disappeared? I went
to her lodgings an hour ago, and she
wa 8 gone. Nobody knew when or how
she had left, or where bound. With
Stover at large, I'm afraid for her "

Save your fears," called Bee Mac-

Gowan's clear voice as she entered.

All gazed as she waJked up to Con-
greve.

"They said at your headquarters that
you were here," she said. "I come to
give myself up."

"Give yourself up!" echoed Buck-
alew. Congreve and Crofts together.

bhe smiled quietly, and nodded.
I must make an admission," she
went on, as if reciting. "I said once
that I came here to interview Mr.
Malbrook just at the time of his death
The capture of Mr. Stover took your
minds off me without further ques-
loning. Prrala, before his death,
tried to say that someone had come

3th M e iK aPa u m r nt dUrin e hU t3lk

with Malbrook. I am that someone."
More silence. Congreve broke it.
Uo I understand," he said, "that
you are confessing to the murder?"

1 neither confess nor deny," the
girl answered, almost primly. "You
are^a criminologist. Find out for your-

toiTw" under arrest '" C ° n * reve

CHAPTER X
The Second Explosion

^JIRRA, finishing his work re-
*M turned to the outer balcony
where his flying machine was moored.
But he did not enter it at once. In-
stead, he selected a wrench from
among his tools and turned upon the
robot helper whose peculiar behavior
he diagnosed as faulty mechanism.

1 darre not trrusst you in the flyerr
while my attention iss occupied bv
operrating the mechanissm," he ad-
dressed the metal figure. "I had bet-
terr examine yourr worrkss now, fix
them if possible, or put you tempo-
ramly out of commisssion if not "

He paused, out of patience. His
servitor was actually retreating be-
fore him. "Sstand sstill!" commanded
Girra, and pursued.

Stover backed up, thinking hard
and desperately. Then he could back
no farther. Girra had herded him into
a corner, close against the railing.

DEVIL'S PLANET

The Martian extended the wrench,
fumbling at one of the bolts that held
Stover's disguise-shell together.

A twist, a tug, and his secret would
be out — Girra would perceive that in-
side the apparent robot was, not a
mass of mechanism but a living Ter-
restrial, very much wanted by police.
And Stover did not care to be arrested
just now, He had other plans.

Because he must, he put forth one
hand in its metal sheathing and
snatched the wrench from Girra's
grasp, The Martian mechanic retreat-
ed in turn, dumbfounded beyond
speech. Then, as Stover made a threat-
ening flourish with the wrench, Girra
dropped the kit of tools he carried
and retreated toward the entrance to
Malbrook's apartment.

"Help! Asssisstance!" he squalled.
"My rrobot hass gone out of contrrol !"

He was gone, out of sight for a few
moments. In that precious time Stov-
er carried into action a quick plan
of misdirection. From j^he fallen tool-
kit he snatched a thin, strong line,
knotted one end to the railing and
threw the other end free into the
abyss below. Then he ducked back
into a shallow corner as Girra rushed
forth again, followed by the mystified
and impatient policeman who had
kept guard in the vestibule.

"Now then, now then/* this police-
man was grumbling, after the manner
of policemen generally throughout all
worlds and ages. "What happened,
you say? Your robot — where is your
robot?"

Girra ran to the railing. One tenta-
cle caught the tethered end of the
line.

"It hass climbed down thiss line!"
he cried sagely. "Climbed down to
lowerr levelss and escaped!"

"Never heard of a robot doing that,"
commented the policeman. He went to
Girra's side, and also peered down,
"Huh!" he grunted. "That's what
comes of too much clockwork in those
babies. They get into wild messes.
We'd better call for Congreve,"

They entered the vestibule again.

At once Stover ran to the moored
flyer, got in and went soaring away.

Girra got back to the Bureau of-
fice in a hired vehicle. The mystery

was deepened when there came a re-
port from a far rooftop. An Archi-
tecture Bureau ship had landed there.
Whoever had flown it was gone. In-
side was a robot shell, with no ma-
chinery. Girra, smarting from repri-
mands by Congreve and his work su-
perior, sought furiously for the cul-
prit responsible for this state of
affairs. He failed to find him because
he did not know where and how to
look.

THE culprit in question had gone
straight to the office of Special
Agent Congreve, When that intelli-
gent officer returned from the Mai-
brook tower Stover stood forth to
give himself up.

"I'm doing this," said Stover, "be-
cause I want to clear up things in my
own way. You were close to arresting
me under suspicious circumstances
not long ago. I didn't want that, but
a free surrender is different, Well,
why don't you put me under arrest?
A little while ago you were even of-
fering a big reward for me."

"Mr. Brome Fielding offered the
reward, not the police," replied Con-
greve, after a moment of enigmatic
meditation. "Anyhow, Stover, we've
changed our minds about you. The
finger of suspicion has veered away — "

"Toward Bee MacGowan."

"I answer no questions," said Con-
greve, thereby admitting that Stover
was right, "and I don't commit you to
prison. I only desire that you remain
in Pulambar. In fact, I'll make sure
that you do. Hold out your left hand."

Stover obeyed, and upon the skinned
and abraded wrist Congreve snapped
a bracelet of the sort Stover had al-
ready worn. Carefully the officer fit-
ted the thing, so that it fitted almost
as snugly as a noose of cord.

"You seem to have shaken one of
these things off," he observed. "You'll
not get rid of that one, Mr, Stover.
And I don't think I have to tell you
about the peculiar and unpleasant
properties of this little device. When
things cool off, and if you stay in the
clear, I want to hear from you just
what happened since I saw you last."

"That's a date," agreed Stover, "Now
may I see Miss MacGowan?"

STARTLING STORIES

"You may not." That was even more
of an admission that the police were
holding her.

Stover shrugged and left.

He felt that he saw through Con-
greve's new attitude toward him. Bee
MacGowan had become the chief sus-
pect while he, Stover, was only under
mild suspicion. Either that, or Con*
greve had failed to heap up enough
evidence to convict Stover. Bee Mac-
Gowan had already half-confessed as
the murderer. If she proved innocent,
Stover in the meantime might do more
to convict himself. That was why he
was left free within limitations.
Clever man, Congreve.

Meanwhile, Bee MacGowan had
complicated matters even more than
the police considered. Yesterday
Stover had escaped brilliantly and
daringly. Now he had wanted to sur-
render, rebelling at the thought of
retaining his freedom at the hands of
the girl. He told himself this was not
a romantic regard for her, but only
what any self-respecting male should
do.

She was wrong in taking responsi-
bility for the quarrel, the murder, and
Dillon Stover's subsequent plight.
True, the fight had started over her,
but it might have started over any
passably attractive girl, Malbrook and
Stover being the men they were. Be-
yond that, Stover wished she had sat
tight and let him do the thinking and
fighting.

"Strong-headed, but a girl in a mil*
lion," he estimated her to himself.
"No, in a million million. She feels
that it's her duty to take the fall, I
suppose, but I wish she hadn't sur-
rendered. The charge would be
bound to break down against me or
any other innocent person.' 1

That new thought flashed like light
in his mind. It was a rationalization
that must have come to Bee Mac-
Gowan. She had invited arrest and
indictment for the sake of giving him
freedom — because she was really in-
nocent. She had courage to risk trial
on those grounds.

"I believe in her P he decided. "Ill
make the rest believe in her, too.
Meanwhile, what am I mooning about?
The real killer's swanking around

free. I'm supposed to be after him.
That," he told himself with all the
assurance in the world, "is what she
set me free for — to clear us both and
punish a cowardly assassin."

HE reached a vestibule-restaurant,
built like a great glassed-in bal-
cony hanging high on the cliff of the
same building that housed Congreve's
headquarters. Sitting down at a with-
drawn table, he called for a late break-
fast and a wireless telephone. Be-
tween bites, he contacted Buckalew's
apartment. The hired robot servitor
answered metallically. Then came the
voice of Buckalew.

"Dillon, my boy! Don't tell me
where you are — the police are looking
everywhere for you."

"Not they," replied Stover. "I just
tried to give myself up to Congreve,
All he's doing is to hold me close to
Pulambar. Bee MacGowan is the one
they're working on now."

"I was present when she was arrest-
ed," Buckalew informed him.

"So was I," Stover admitted. "In-
side the shell of that Martian's robot
helper — why gulp like that, Robert?"
"I didn't gulp, Dillon, I never do.
So you were disguised as a robot?
Remarkable. Only somebody close to
your grandfather could have thought
of that. As to being held in Pulam-
bar, so am I, the Phogors, Amyas
Crofts, and one or two others. If
you're not under danger of arrest, Dil-
lon, come home where we can talk
more fully."

"As soon as I've finished eating,"
promised Stover. "I have something
of interest to offer, a theory of Bee
MacGowan's innocence — there, you
gulped again!"

"It was you that time," charged
Buckalew. "I heard you plainly.
Here, don't ring off yet."

"I heard a click, too," said Stover.
"Maybe some third person was tuned
in on our wave-length. "Ill come
to you at once, Buckalew. Wait there
for me."

"Take care of yourself," admon-
ished Buckalew.

Finishing his breakfast, Stover
sought an outside balcony and hailed
a flying taxi. The driver was the same

DEVIL'S PLANET

■

who had served him on the night of
the murder. He stared at Stover in
astonishment.

"Say," he accused, "the law wants
you. There's a reward — "

"Not any more," Stover shut him
off. "I'm not on the preferred list
at headquarters."

But the driver insisted on a quick
radio-phone conversation with police
before he would listen to Stover's
directions.

Flying back and landing on the bal-
cony of his lodgings, Stover had a
sense of unreality, as though he had
been gone for months. Enough ad-
venture had befallen him to fill a
month, at that. Stover pondered a
moment on the relativity of time's
passage. Then he went in.

"Robot !" he called. "Get me some
fresh clothes. And where's Mr. Buck-
alew?"

No answer. The front room was
dim, but not dark. A couple of lesser
radium bulbs still burned. By their
light he saw the robot leaning against
a wall.

"I gave you an order," said Stover
sternly. "Why don't you obey it?
Clothes, I said."

The robot did not move. He crossed
the floor toward it, putting a hand
on its shoulder-joint.

THE thing seemed stuck to the
— wall, as though bolted there. Sto-
ver exerted his strength, but could not
budge it. He braced the heel of his
left hand against the wall to get more
leverage, and felt a tug at his wrist.
Congreve's bracelet seemed trying to
fasten itself beside the robot. Stover
jerked away.

"Magnetism. The metal wall's mag-
netized!" Again he lifted his voice.
"Buckalew! Aren't you here? What's
going on?"

Turning back toward the center of
the room, he saw Buckalew for the
first time. His host was seemingly
lounging in a corner opposite. Buck-
alew neither moved nor spoke.

"Don't tell me they've magnetized
you, too," cried Stover impatiently.
"Speak up, what's happened?"

He took a step toward his friend.
At the same time, there was a crash

at his elbow. The robot, evidently
released from its magnetic bonds, had
fallen forward and lay writhing, try-
ing to recover itself.

Stover bent and helped the metal
servitor to its flat feet. Then Bucka-
lew's voice was raised in a warning
shout that filled the room:

"Look out, Dillon — danger of some
kind ! Duck!"

So startled that he forgot his
touchy mystification, Stover released
his hold on the robot's arm and again
turned toward the corner opposite.
Buckalew was falling as the robot had
fallen, but more slowly and gently,
almost floating downward toward the
floor,

"Just what's going on here?" began
Stover.

Something dark flashed upon him,
seized him and hurled him flat. A
moment later, it was as if lightning
and thunder had concentrated in the
room.

Dillon Stover's senses were fairly
ripped out of him.

CHAPTER XI
And Then the Third

STOVER'S hearing came back
first; his ears rang and roared.
Then his feelings; he ached from
head to foot. He opened his eyes to a
scene of confusion that still blurred
and quivered before him.

"Sit up and drink this," Buckalew
was commanding him\

Stover got up slowly. Buckalew
fastened a silver collar with one hand,
while the other extended a glass.

"Thanks," said Stover, sipping. The
drink was full of bite, but it cleared
his head and steadied his knees. "How
long was I like that?"

"Quite a while. Long enough for
me to change my clothes. My others
were almost torn off me by the blast."

Sure enough, rags of the brown
fabric lay on the floor. Stover glanced
sharply at Buckalew. Wasn't it a
trifle callous of the other to think
of dressing before giving aid to an in-
jured man? But Buckalew gave him

STARTLING STORIES

no opening to complain, gesturing in-
stead to the tumbled furniture and
the soot-fogged walls of their once
splendid parlor.

"Not quite as powerful an explosion
as the one at Malbrook's," went on
Buckalew weightily, "or it would
have torn off the whole top of this
tower, and blown you to atoms."

Stover, swiftly regaining his full
strength and sense, now looked down
at his own clothes. They were not
damaged in the least, Buckalew spoke
true words, but enigmatic ones. First
of all, how much did Buckalew know
about the Malbrook death-blast that
he was able so glibly to compare this
one with it? Second, why did he
speak of Stover only as being "blown
into atoms?"

Hadn*t he, Buckalew, been in dan-
ger as well? Or had he perhaps op-
erated and directed the danger from
a position of safety? The thought
seemed ungrateful, Buckalew had
been the friend of Stover's grand-
father, was now the friend of Stover.

"It's got the poor servitor," the
younger man made reply, pointing to
the shattered mass of metal that had
been the robot. "I suppose he got be-
tween me and the blast. If so, I can
thank a robot for saving me"

"Yes," agreed Buckalew, in a tone
that seemed almost bitter. "You can
thank a robot for saving you."

"You sound as if you're sorry!
Stover could not help protesting.
"Tell me just what happened here.
You were here waiting after you
answered my phone call. What hap-
pened in the meantime?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," re-
plied Buckalew,

"But you must have !"

"I can only say again that I do not.
My — my mind went blank."

Stover eyed him narrowly. "You
mean, something stunned you?"

"Yes, something like that."

Stover could not see any sign of a
cut or bruise upon Buckalew. His
hair was as sleek as ever. Only his
manner was weary and solemn. Again
Stover made a deliberate effort to
banish suspicion. He volunteered the
story of his recent adventures, finish-
ing with an account of how he had

♦i

come home to find the robot servitor
stuck by magnetic power to the wall
and Buckalew himself motionless in
a corner.

"I don't remember being in the cor-
ner," said Buckalew when he had fin-
ished. "I was — overcome in my dress-
ing-room back there. As I remember,
I regained consciousness just in time
to sense danger and warn you."

"What danger?" Stover demanded.
"You knew there would be an explo-
sion?"

IF he hoped to startle or trap Buck-
alew, he was disappointed. The
other made steady reply.

"All that I knew was that I had
been attacked in some way, and that
you had come. After that, the bomb
or gun or whatever went off."

They inspected the room, setting
up the furniture again and checking
damage. Stover ran for a chemical
kit, testing the atmosphere that still
had a slight murk.

"Old-fashioned nitroglycerin, as in
the other case," he announced. "And
here, on the floor — "

He knelt in the corner where he re-
membered seeing Buckalew. There
was a stain there. As Girra had done
in his presence only a few hours be-
fore, Stover made tests. This, too,
yielded a trace of synthetic rubber.

Meanwhile, Buckalew was talking
on the radio phone.

"No," he was saying, "nothing at
all. A trifling accident, no damage.
Not worth your notice." He switched
off and turned toward Stover. "A
police call, Some neighbor gave an
alarm."

"Why not call them in?" almost
shouted Stover. "Do you want to
hide anything from them?"

"Yes. Don't you?" And Bucka-
lew crossed the floor to him. "You
want to expose the real murderer by
yourself— you told me that. I thought
I was helping you."

That should settle suspicions, even
if Stover lyingly told himself that he
had none. Buckalew continued:

"Undoubtedly the attempt was
aimed at you by the real murderer.
He will think you destroyed until he
hears otherwise."

'EVIL'S PLANET

"But a report to the police, not
necessarily public — "

"Have you the slightest doubt that
the aforesaid murderer doesn't know
everything the police know? For in-
stance, was any public announcement
made of your release from the order
of imprisonment?"

"No, but we both heard noises that
suggested someone listening in on
our phone wavelength," reminded
Stover, scowling, "That was the
probable tipoff."

"Why would an enemy listen in un-
less he knew you were free and would
call me here? No, Dillon. The mur-
derer has access to police records and
secrets."

Stover nodded. Buckalew was right.
"Then," he announced, "I can limit
the suspects to people in pretty high
places — the Upper-tower set. People
like Malbrook, himself, his partner
Fielding, his fiancee Reynardine Pho-
gor, or her stepfather, the Venusian.
Or even Amyas Crofts."

"Or me," added Buckalew with the
slightest of smiles.

Stover jumped and stared. Bucka-
lew's smile broadened.

"Or me," he repeated. "I'm an old-
timer in Pulambar. I have friends
and a position, I might be able to
get an in at police headquarters. Don't
forget that Cong re ve himself has been
conferring with me lately. And I have
as good a motive for killing Malbrook
as any of the others/ 1

"And a motive for trying to kill
me?" asked Stover in spite of him-
self.

Again Buckalew smiled. 'You
wouldn't expect me to tell you that,
if I wanted to kill you and had failed.
Well, to sum up, you have reason to
suspect me, and I to suspect you.
After all, we were both present when
this second explosion was touched
off."

"You don't believe in me, then?"
demanded Stover.

BUCKALEW cocked his head, ap-
parently trying to remember
something. At last:

"In an ancient but most readable
work, called Alice in Wonderland, the
heroine is addressed by a unicorn.

Know what a unicorn is? Well, this
one said, l If you believe in me, I'll
believe in you. Is that a bargain? 1
All right, Dillon, is it?"

He offered his hand. Dillon took
it, regretting whole-heartedly that he
must make a secret reservation.

"Your little friend Bee MacGowan
is cleared by this," Buckalew re-
sumed. "She's in prison even while
this murder attempt is made."

"Let's tell the police that," said
Stover stepping toward the phone.
"They'll release her at once,"

"And probably arrest you again,"
added Buckalew. "Say nothing. She's
giving you a chance to clear her and
yourself. Use it."

Stover fell into a silence, almost a
stupid silence. In the midst of it the
front door opened and two figures
fairly dashed in. They came to a halt.

"Mr, Stover — er — " stammered the
voice of Amyas Crofts,

Stover felt almost grateful for this
opportunity to change the subject. He
strode across to the gilded youngster,
glaring a challenge.

"Why do you rocket in like that?"
he growled. "What do you want
here?" A light seemed to dawn in-
side his head and stop the aching.
"Perhaps you didn't expect to find
me alive?"

The companion of Amyas Crofts
had turned to dart out again, but
Buckalew, moving with amazing
speed, gained the door and fastened it.
Then he turned to confront the would-
be fugitive. It was the girl with red-
dyed hair whom Stover knew as
Gerda.

"Let me out," commanded Gerda as
from under her cape she whipped an
electro-automatic pistoL

Without even lifting an eyebrow,
Buckalew seized it and wrenched it
from her hand.

"Go there sit down," he told her,
pointing toward one of the least darn-
aged chairs. "You might have shot
me just then."

Gerda sullenly obeyed, eyes flash-
ing. Meanwhile Stover waited bale-
fully for Amyas Crofts to explain.
"It's this girl," Crofts attempted at
last, "Gerda, she calls herself. She
came to my apartment, told me she

STARTLING STORIES

knew that I was crazy about Bee Mae-
Gowan, just the same as you are — "

"Never mind who I'm crazy about/"
snapped Stover, his blood seething.
"Your affairs, not mine, are being
looked into. Gerda told you that.
What next?"

"She said that if I came here I'd see
for myself that there was no more
reason to think you'd stand in my way
with Bee. When I hesitated, she
begged me to come. Said she'd come
with me."

"He's lying," contributed Gerda
from where she sat under Buckalew's
guard.

Stover did not know which to be-
lieve. He laid a big hard hand on
Croft's shoulder. "I've got a mind to
knock your teeth out through the back
of your neck," he said angrily. "So
you busted in here without asking
permission."

"Gerda said it was all right, that
you were expecting me/* explained
Crofts, "and keep your hands to your-
self, I'm not so sure you could knock
my teeth anywhere."

"Gentlemen," interposed Buckalew
smoothly, "you're clouding some
rather important issues with these per-
sonalities. Dillon, I venture to say
that one of these visitors, and perhaps
both, thought to find us dead."

CROFTS'S white anger turned to
white panic. "Dead?" he repeat-
ed* "You think we were going to kill
you?"

"He's putting on an act," accused
Gerda, and Buckalew waved {or her to
keep quiet.

Stover had cooled down a trifle, tell-
ing himself that the mere mention of
rivalry over Bee MacGowan must not
be enough to drive him so crazy with
wrath. He saw that Crofts wore a
bracelet like his. This man, too, would
be kept in Pulambar by Congreve for
possible further investigation. Let
him go, decided Stover, and keep an
eye on him.

"Get out," he told Crofts.

The other went to the door, then
paused. His eyes gleamed like fur-
naces. "You're on your own ash-heap,"
he said. "Some time we'll get to-
other on equal ground."

"Out," bade Stover, "or I'll drop
you clear down to the canal level."

Crofts was gone, and Stover walked
back to where Gerda sat.

"Buckalew tells thg truth. You
thought we'd be dead. Why did you
come here with Crofts?"

"Because I was paid to," she told
him with cheerful irony.

"You mean," prompted Stover, "that
you were bringing him here so that
he could be framed with the crime?"
"Or," put in Buckalew, "that he was
the one who paid you, and you both
came to make sure we were dead?"

"That would be telling," Gerda re-
plied to both questions. "Mr. Stover
already knows that I'm working for
that mysterious blast-killer. I won't
deny it. But I'll deny other things.
I'm a good servant." She gazed from
one to the other of them. "And those
hard looks won't get you anywhere,
either. I know that Mr. Stover won't
hurt me physically, and that he
wouldn't let Mr. Buckalew try."

Stover walked to a closet and
opened it. There was barely room in-
side for a person to stand comfort-
ably. "We'll lock you up for long
enough to think it over," he said.

With a disdainful smile the girl
sauntered across and into the narrow
prison. When he had latched the door.
Stover looked at Buckalew, who had
followed him.

"Well, Dillon?" prompted Bucka-
lew in a clear, carrying voice. "You
realize that there is no ventilation in
that closet?"

There was plenty of ventilation, but
Stover took the cue.

"Of course not," he agreed. "I count
on that to change her mind. She'll
start to smother, and then she'll talk."

Gerda said something profane from
inside the closet.

"What if she lies?" asked Buckalew.

"We'll shut her up again," said
Stover.

"Watch here," suggested Buckalew.
"I'll make a tour of the rear rooms.
We don't know yet what damage has
been done there."

Stover nodded agreement, and sat
down in the chair facing the closet
door.

He had not long to wait. Gerda be-

DEVIL'S PLANET

gan to pound on the inside of the metal
panel.

"Well?" said Stover.

"Let me out," she pleaded in a tense,
muffled voice,

"Ready to tell us what you know?"

"No. I daren't. But — there's some-
thing in here with me!"

Stover laughed. "It's too dark for
you to see anything."

"I felt a touch — there it is again."
Her voice rose shrilly. "Stay away
from me, whatever you are, or I'll
smash you!"

The door shook with a deafening
boom.

Even before Stover could unfasten
the latch, he knew what had happened
inside. He flung open the door, and
the body of Gerda pitched limply out
into his arms.

CHAPTER XII
Fight and Fall

STOOPING, Stover laid Gerda at
full length upon the metal floor.
Her eyes were shut, and her face com-
pletely clear of all cunning and mock-
ing expressions, as if she realized that
such things would avail her no longer.
She was bruised and the back of her
skull was driven in, but there was
surprisingly little blood.

"A small explosion," said Stover
aloud. "First that shattering one at
Malbrook's, then a lesser one in this
parlor, and now one quite light in the
closet. Robert, come here!"

'I am here," said his friend behind
him. "This is a bad mess, Dillon. I
suppose you realize that there would
be very little chance of clearing your-
self now that someone else has been
killed in your presence — and a police
spy at that."

"Did I tell you she was a police spy,
or do you know that as a man-about-
Pularnbar?" demanded Stover. Then,
without waiting for a reply : "All I can
say is that I'm innocent."

"And all I can say is that I know
you are," Buckalew assured him,

"How do you know?"

"I said once that I'd believe in you,"

Buckalew reminded him gently, "and
I meant it. Cover her over with this
cloak. Now, to look inside the closet."
They both did so. Stover saw things
that had become almost familiar — a
murk of pungent nitroglycerine vapor,
a stain that would certainly prove to
be traces of synthetic rubber. He saw,
too, a small hole, a ventilator like the
one at Malbrook's, but in a corner of
the floor. He poked a finger into it.
"What's below this place, Robert?"
"Why, nothing. Or nearly nothing.
This tower is on a framework of steel
girders, you know. Nothing below us
for hundreds of yards except criss-
crossed cables and iron bars."

Stover raced out onto the balcony.
Amyas Crofts was not there, nor any
moored flying vessel. Stover threw
a leg over the barred railing.

"Here, Dillon," called Buckalew
anxiously. "What are you up to?"

"I'm going to have a look beneath
us," replied Stover. "If I can swing
down below just a few feet, I can see
clear under from front to back."

"You think the murderer might be
down there?"

"I do," said Stover, and swung his
other leg over. He was clinging to the
railing with both hands, his toes find-
ing a ledge barely two inches wide.
He tried to keep his eyes and thoughts
from the abyss below. If he fell, he'd
bounce off the lower roof and drop
into a deep of two miles and more to
the canal level,

"Let me go down," offered Bucka-
lew. "You'd better not risk it, Dillon.
Ticklish work, climbing around."

Buckalew should have known that
such talk would force him to the try,
reflected Stover. Perhaps Buckalew
did know. The young man's tempera-
ment would never let him pause now.
Grasping the rail in both hands, he
lowered himself a trifle, one foot ex-
tended to grope for another toehold.
"If you insist," Buckalew added,
"I can help you."

He ran back into the parlor, and
brought out a long dark cord of
velvet fabric* "This was used to bind
the drapes at the windows," he said.
"It's strong enough to bear your
weight on Mars. Take hold, I'll lower
you."

STARTLING STORIES

Stover had to accept. Indeed, he
could not go down without such help.
He gripped the soft, tough cord, and
Buckalew began to pay it out

A dozen feet or so Stover descended
like a bucket into a well. There was
nothing below save the thin air of
Mars, nothing to cling to save this
velvet line held above by one he was
not sure he could trust. Then he was
below the floor-plane of the apart-
ment, looking into an openwork mass
of structural metal.

He swung inward, catching a girder
in one hand.

"Slack off a little," he called up to
Buckalew. "I'm all right. Make the
rope fast so that I can swarm up
again."

Like a sailor among rigging; Stover
worked his way in among the struts,
beams and cross-pieces. He found
footing upon a horizontal girder, less
than ten inches across. A higher and
smaller bar of metal served as a sort
of hand-rail. He moved in gingerly
fashion to a point beneath the closet
where Gerda had been overtaken by
death.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, though he
did not think of anyone hearing himu
"Here's something caught just inside.
A bit of—"

With the forefinger of his free hand
he dug it out of the ventilator open-
ing. It was a bit of elascoid, thin as
silk and flexible and stretchy as the
finest rubber. The form of it was tu-
bular. It was the size of his forefinger
and the length of that forefinger's two
upper joints. He sniffed at it and in-
haled a pungency like that of the ex-
plosive reek. But how could such a
limp fragment be a weapon?

He tucked it into a pocket of the
stolen tunic he still wore, preparatory
to turning carefully around to retrace
his steps along the girder.

"Stand right there," came a pene-
trating whisper.

Stover finished the turn, and looked
back the way he had come.

Upon the girder, not five feet away,
stood a figure as tall as he, but as
vaguely draped as a ghost in a volumi-
nous mantle of neutral gray. Over
the head was a loosely folded veil,
with no holes for eyes or nose. Ap-

parently it could be seen and breathed
through from within. One hand poked
from under the robes, heavily gloved.
That hand pointed a pistol-form ray
thrower straight at the pit of Stover's
stomach.

"Stand right there," repeated that
genderless whisper. "You have poked
too close to an awkward truth, Dillon
Stover. Which death do you choose,
the hard one or the easy?"

The mention of death did not
frighten Stover. Aside from the fact
that he had considerable personal
courage, he had been in too much dan-
ger for the past sixty hours to be
much shaken now. But he recognized
that his chance of escape and pursuit
of his quest had grown slim and fee-
ble. He stood still, tense, watchful,
wondering if his already overworked
luck would provide him with one
more straw at which he, a drowning
man, might clutch.

"The hard death," he said, "because
it will involve you/*

THE robed one moved a step closer.
— Stover heard the clang of heavy
metal soles. This person was standing
upon stiltlike devices to lend false
height.

"Think what you say," came the
whisper. "You are asking me to burn
you in two with this ray. Better a
simple plunge down with quick obliv-
ion at the end."

^ "Not a bit of it," flung back Stover.
"I'm here on Mars for a specific pur-
pose. Two specific purposes. Primar-
ily, to bring water back and touch
this poor dried-out world into some-
thing like life again. That brought
me to Mars, and it's a thing I won't
let go of easily. Secondarily," and
Stover's voice grew fierce, "there's
the job of bringing you to justice.
It'll be done."

"It will not be done," came the
sneering denial. "You die, here and
now. If I burn you with the ray — H

"If you do," finished Stover for his
threatener, "my body will drop down
and be found below by the police. I'll
be set down as a murder victim. Un-
derstand? It'll be a clue against you,
whoever you are hiding in that fake-
melodrama robe. You'll be just a little

DEVIL'S PLANET

closer to discovery and destruction.
Go on, scorch me with your ray. I'd
not ask for mercy even if you were go-
ing to cook me to death by inches."

"Wait;' said the other. "You are
wise, Dillon Stover, in your deduc-
tions about me and my intentions. You
rouse my admiration, I am tempted
to give you a chance for life, A fair
fight, eh?"

The gloved hand lifted and ges-
tured, the ray thrower's muzzle went
out of line. Stover sprang forward on
the girder, forgetting how precarious
was his footing and balance, and
struck hard with his right fist into
the center of that veiled face.

His knuckles felt as if they would
explode — the veil also hid some kind
of metal visor that helped muffle and
disguise the whisper. There was a
swirl of draperies as the tall body
swayed back before that mighty buf-
fet. But there was no knockdown, no
plunge from the girder.

"I hoped that you would strike,"
came the whisper, exultant this time.
"My shoe-soles have magnets, holding
me to this metal girder."

Pulling itself erect again, the robed
thing clubbed him with the muzzle
of the ray thrower.

Stover did not duck quickly enough.
A blow glanced on the side of his
head. He reeled, and there were no
magnetized shoe-soles to save him.
He lost his footing, plunged from the
girder. Falling past it, he tried vainly
to clutch it with his hands.

He was falling headlong. Down
below, seen through cross-angled
metal bars and cables as through an
intricate web, was the distant broad
roof that upheld the scaffolding.

"I'm done for," he told himself.
"Victim number four of this wild
beast of Pulambar. And my body will
look like the victim of accident or
suicide. Won't even supply a clew/*

He struck heavily.

CHAPTER XIII
Half a Key

ORTY feet below the girder, two
cables forked from a common

mooring, making a narrow, spring-
armed V. Into the angle of that V
Dillon Stover had fallen. Even on
light-gravitied Mars it was a heavy
tumble and the impact of Stover's
body made the two cables snap apart,
then back. He was caught at the waist
like a frog caught in the beak of a
stork.

Lying thus horizontally, feet kick-
ing and head dangling, Stover won-
dered whether to be thankful or not.
He seized the cables and tried to push
them apart, but they were tough and
tight-squeezing, and his right hand
had sprained itself by striking that
veiled metal mask. He relaxed, sav-
ing strength. As he did so there was
the snarling snick of an MS-ray cut-
ting through the air close to him.

He looked up. The draped figure
knelt on the girder and levelled the
ray thrower at one of the cables. The
metal sizzled. Stover's pinched abdo-
men felt the cable vibrate. Still chary
of marking Stover with a telltale
wound, the killer above was trying
to cut the metal strand that held him
and set him falling again.

"I wish you luck!" the young man
called, and his swaddled destroyer
made a salute-gesture of irony with
the ray thrower. Then came a new
sound, a whistling, shrieking siren.
Stover looked outward. A plane, a
taxi flyer, was hovering and bobbing
just beyond the scaffolding. Some-
how the drama on the girders had at-
tracted attention. Another plane
came, another. The ray above him
was shut off.

Stover, cramped and half suffo-
cated, gestured to the pilots of the
machines. Pointing to the scissors-
like cables that imprisoned him, he
spread his hands in appeal for help.
One of the planes made a wriggling
motion in midair to indicate under-
standing. But no one seemed to know
how to reach and free him.

Stover groaned despite himself.
Then, once more a voice from the
girder forty feet overhead.

"Dillon, hold tight! I'm going to
get you out of that."

It was Buckalew, running along the
narrow footpath like a cat on a fence-
top. One of his hands flourished a

STARTLING STORIES

velvet rope.

Stover tried to call back but he had
no breath to do more than wheeze and
gasp. Buckalew was lowering the
rope. It dangled against Stover's
hand, and he seized it.

Now he would be pulled up. All
the way? Or would Buckalew let
him fall, seemingly by accident? Had
Buckalew clambered down out of the
tower, or had he merely thrown off
the gray disguisings? No time to
speculate now. Stover caught the
velvet strand. It tightened,

But he was too closely crimped, and
one of his hands was injured- The
first tug wrenched the rope from him,
and Buckalew almost fell with the
sudden slackening of the cord.

More sirens. The air around the
scaffolding was thick with planes.
Drivers and passengers were sympa-
thetic and most unhelpful.

"Chin up, Dillon!" Buckalew yelled
above the racket. "I'll try something
else/*

He rove a noose in the rope's end.
This he lowered and snared one of
Stover's waving feet. Then he began
to pull. Stover shifted in the clutch
of his trap, but could not be dragged
free.

BUCKALEW sprang backward
_ into space.

He kept hold of the rope, which
tightened abruptly across the girder.
The sudden application of his hurled
weight did the trick. With a final
cruel pinch that all but buckled Stov-
er's ribs, the cables released their
hold. Then Stover was being drawn
up by one foot, his head downward.
Buckalew came slowly down at the
other end of the rope. The smaller
man was strangely the heavier. Draw-
ing to a point opposite Stover, Bucka-
lew caught his friend by the arm.

"Steady on," he bade, twisting the
two strands of the line together.

Then, thankfully and triumphantly,
Stover and Buckalew climbed hand
over hand up the doubled length of
velvet. A few moments of rest on the
girder, and they walked back along
it to where another length of cord
gave them a passage back to their own
balcony.

To the thronging plane-riders who
now closed in, Buckalew had a brief
word of dismissal.

"Did you like the show? We're
rehearsing an acrobatic turn for next
year's society circus on Venus. Not
very good yet, are we?"

Then he closed the door behind
him. He brought the exhausted Stover
a drink, and listened to all that had
happened below the floor.

"You say that the disguised one was
as tall as you?" he asked at the end
of the story,

"Yes, with those false magnetic
soles," replied Stover. "He'd have to
be built up to be that big. All my
suspects are shorter than I am," He
measured Buckalew's middling height
with his eye as he spoke.
^ "Why say «he'?" asked Buckalew.
"Couldn't it be a woman, with that
whisper, the stilts and draperies.
Reynardine Phogor?"

"She might be a killer," admitted
Stover. "You seem to think so."

"I didn't say that. I only want her
to be remembered. Don't drop any
suspects from the list without very
good reasons."

"But where could that murderer
have popped from?" elaborated
Stover, "The whole scaffolding's
open-work. Not place enough to hide
even a small person. Yet I turned
around and there he — or she — was."
"You said the draperies were gray,"
reminded Buckalew. "A good color
to blend in with the metal. Probably
the murderer crouched motionless
while you walked right past."

Stover shook his head and rubbed
his bruised side gently. "I find that
pretty hard to accept, on a ten-inch
girder."

"You weren't looking for a human
figure," persisted Buckalew. "You
were looking for clues — by the way,
did you find any?"

Stover's hand crept into the pocket
of his tunic. His finger touched the
scrap of elascoid. Perhaps Buckalew
could help him decide exactly what
it was. Perhaps, again, Buckalew
knew only too well what it was.

"No," he said. "Nothing at all,"

Then his eyes had time to quarter
the room, and he jumped up quickly.

DEVIL'S PLANET

"Look! Gerda— her body! It's
gone !"
And it was.

THE high-tower set was holding
carnival at the Zaarr. The place
was packed, nearly every seat and
table taken. There was lots of music,
and Venusian dancers — frog-women
who, grotesque as they were, had yet
the grace of snakes. To keep them
supple and energetic, a misty spray
of water played over the glass stage,
water that might cool the parched and
dehydrated tissues of many a Martian
pauper out on the deserts far away.

Thus in an atmosphere like that of
their own foggy planet, the dancers
outdid themselves, their gliding ges-
tures moving swiftly in faultless
rhythms. Suddenly, with an almost
deafening shout, they sprang into the
air — and disappeared.

It was a tremendous effect. The
water-spray died at once, leaving
nothing but luminous air under the
play of a pale light. Thunderous ap-
plause.

"I know how that is done," Phogor
said to his step-daughter Reynardine.
"The atom-shift ray. It strikes any
material into atomic silence, so that
they fade from view. See, the light
is being wheeled away. Those danc-
ers, in the form of invisible atomic
clouds, will go with it and re-mate-
rialize in the green room. Scientif-
ically simple, and very uncomfortable,
I hear, to those involved. But the
show must go on. Pulambar demands
new thrills."

Brome Fielding smiled, as if he, for
one, found the new thrill acceptable.
Only Amyas Crofts, in a remote cor-
ner, glowered.

For he had been looking toward the
main entrance, and had seen the ar-
rival of the two new guests who had
just come to occupy the last reserved
table.

Dillon Stover, towering and hand-
some in blue and scarlet, made a com-
manding figure even in that richly
decked crowd. Behind him came
Buckalew, more somber but quite as
fashionable in black and silver. Where
Stover's expression was strained and
defiant, Buckalew was absolutely calm

and unruffled of feature.

Others saw the pair, and stared as
fiercely as Amyas Crofts. The Mar-
tian who had replaced Prrala as pro-
prietor fumbled over the admission
card. Others, including many guests,
glowered at the recently jailed young
man who returned so nervily to the
very heart of society. And one figure
swaggered up, a man in the uniform
of a space-officer.

"Now I can believe all I hear of
you, Stover," said this person in a
thick, disagreeable voice. "Only a
man who is all brass and no heart
would have the crust to come over
here."

He was almost as tall as Stover and
heavier. His face might have been
boldly handsome before dissipation
coarsened it. As he spoke, his right
hand slid inside the front of his tunic.

Stover met his stare. "Who are
you?"

"Sharp. Captain Sharp. Retired.
And," the voice grew nastier still,
"since you must have come here just
to show us your face — "

Turning from Stover, he addressed
the crowd that watched as expectantly
as it had watched the encounter with
Malbrook three nights before. "This
man's crust would blunt a rocket-
kick !" he bawled. "Twice a murderer,
and he coldly comes here." He turned
back to Stover. "What have you done
to Gerda?"

"Nothing, if it's any of your busi-
ness," said Stover, fighting to keep
his temper.

The coarse face darkened. "I love
her — and she's disappeared. You," he
leveled a forefinger, "did away with
her. Well, you were full of fight
once before here. How about fight-
ing now?"

"Careful, Dillon," warned Bucka-
lew. "He's deliberately making trou-
ble."

"Maybe you'll fight for this!" raged

Captain Sharp.

HE SLAPPED Stover, open-
handed. Then, as before with
Malbrook, people were interfering.
Among them was one who hadn't been
here on the earlier occasion — Con-
greve. He caught Sharp by the shoul-

STARTLING STORIES

ders and thrust him back.

"Don't you High-tower sparks do
anything but hit each other?" he
asked dryly.

The new Martian proprietor came
towards Stover. "I feel, ssirr, that
you had betterr go elssewherre. We
cannot have ssuch brrawling around
here."

Tm going," growled Stover. "My
enemies know Fm still in the running,
for lightning to challenge twice in
the same place."

They went outdoors, and Buckalew
signaled for an air-taxi.

"I've got it!" Stover exclaimed sud-
denly.

"Got what?"

"The key — half a key, anyway. This
is a murder gone wrong. Just now
this Sharp tried to force a quarrel on
me."

"Probably acting for the murderer,"
chimed in Buckalew,

"Exactly. It was all fixed up. This
Captain Sharp sneers at me and does
his best to make a fight of it. That
was what Malbrook did. Malbrook's
wasn't a chance squabble. He engi-
neered things to make a situation out
of which a duel would come. For some
reason, I was marked to be murdered."

BUCKALEW gazed at Stover with
what might have been critical

wonder in his deep dark eyes. "You
may be right. But Malbrook was
killed first."

"That's it. First a plot to destroy
men. Then someone kills Malbrook
instead. I wonder who all are in-
volved/ 1

"I can name one," said Buckalew.
"Bee MacGowan."

Stover started and tried to gesture
the idea away.

"But she was what you fought over,
Dillon," Buckalew pursued. "She was
at your table just as Malbrook came
over and used her to make a scene. I
said once not to forget any single
figure in this mess. That goes for
Bee MacGowan, as well. Here's our
taxi"

Stover nodded, but not as a sign of
defeat.

"I'll have the solution inside of an-
other day," he vowed.

CHAPTER XIV
Three Calls at Midnight

CONSIDERING that Captain
_ Sharp had just left the expensive
and exclusive Zaarr, the sleeping quar-
ters he sought were shabby. They
consisted of two small rooms, little
larger than cupboards, in one of the
lofty, blocky buildings that underlay
the high towers among which he had
spent a few hours. He entered the
front cubicle, and flung himself down
in the one chair.

His coarse face bore the look of
one angry and worried.

Almost at once his radio phone
buzzed. He approached it as a diver
approaches a cold plunge. "Yes," he
said into the transmitter, "this is Cap-
tain Sharp."

"You have failed me," came a cold
whisper he knew,

"It wasn't my fault," Sharp began
to plead,

"Do not palter. Do not argue. I
was there and saw. You handled the
situation foolishly. I felt like telling
Mr. Congreve the truth about you,
that you're guilty of many offenses
against the Space Laws, and letting
him carry you off to jail. I am
through with you now,"

"Give me a chance!" Sharp cried
vehemently. "I need that money you
offered me. Let me meet Stover again.
I promise — "

"Your promises are nothing, Sharp.
Less than nothing."

A noise behind. Sharp set down
the phone and turned.

The door to the rear room, where
his bed was located, swung open. A
towering shape in blue and scarlet
stepped into the light.

Sharp swore shrilly, and his hand
dived into the bosom of his tunic.
But Dillon Stover's right hand, its
sprained knuckles lightly bandaged,
leveled an electro-automatic.

"Freeze," he commanded, and Sharp
obeyed. Stover crossed to him and
with his left hand drew the weapon
that Sharp carried in an armpit hol-
ster.

DEVIL'S PLANET

The captain found the spirit to
answer. "You aren't going to give me
anything like a fighting chance, I sup-
pose."

"You suppose correctly." Stover
studied him with his bright blue eyes.
"Well, Sharp— Captain Sharp, dis-
charged — "

"How d i d you know that?"
wheezed Sharp, badly shaken.

"I looked through your papers
while I waited here for you. As to
how I got in — you were going to ask
that next? I hired the room next to
you and cut through the wall with an
MS-ray. Your address? I got it at

"I can't. I never saw the bird,"
Sharp was suddenly earnest, "Listen,
you must believe that. I saw only a
big shape wrapped in a cloak, with
the face covered."

"Gray cloak? Veil? Gloves? Was
it man or woman?"

AGAIN Sharp shook his head. I
can't say. He — or she — whis-
pered. I couldn't tell a thing about
the voice." He glanced furtively
around. "I'm risking my life with
every word I speak."

"You're risking your life with
every word you hold back/' Stover

A Grim Tyrant of the Future Condemns His Victims to an

Amazing Penal Colony Upon the Moon

TARIHSH6D
UTOPIA

A Sensational Complete
Book-Length Novel

By
MALCOLM JAMESON

COMING IN THE NEXT ISSUE

the Zaarr, where all guests are re-
quired to register. Why did I come?
To settle accounts. That handles
everything you're thinking to ask me*
Now I'll do the questioning.**

"You've got the guns," snarled
Sharp. "Ask me whatever you want

to."

Stover sat down, but did not grant
a similar relaxation to his captive.
"You were set on me like a mangy
dog/* he charged. "To pick a fight
and kill me. Who hired you?"

Sharp shook his head. "I can't tell
you that."

"You mean you won't?" Stover's
eyes narrowed, and the pistol seemed
to tense itself in his bandaged hand.

informed him. "When were you given

this job?"

"Today about noon." Sharp gulped
and his voice trembled. "I came to
Pulambar a week ago, hoping to make
a connection — a space-job."

Stover nodded. He knew how dis-
credited space-men sometimes signed
with outlaw vessels in such big, lax
communities.

"The job didn't come through,"
Sharp went on, "and I was pretty des-
perate. Then about noon, as I say,
there was a buzz at my door bell. In
stalked this bird in the cloak and veil."

"Asking you to kill me," supplied
Stover, "And you agreed."

Sharp spread his hands in appeal.

STARTLING STORIES

"I'm broke* I'll starve. Don't I have
to live?"

"I fail to see the necessity. And
you won't live long if you don't get
on with this yarn. Talk fast, and don't
lie."

There was no danger of Sharp lying.
"I was told that you'd be at the Zaarr
tonight — you'd made reservation — and
that there'd be an admission card in
my name there," he rattled on. "I was
told how to pick the scrap by men-
tioning a woman named Gerda."

"You don't know Gerda?" put in
Stover.

"Never heard of her before today."
Sharp was almost in tears. "Mr.
Stover, all I can say is that I'm sorrier
than—"

'You'll be sorriest if you try to fool
or forestall me," Stover promised
grimly. "And just now, I judge that
the whisperer was on your phone."

"Yes, telling me that I'd failed, was
through, wouldn't get paid anything."

Stover had relaxed a trifle. Sharp
sprang at him. Without rising from
his seat, Stover lifted a leg and kicked
his assailant in the chest. Sharp fell,
doubled up and gasping. Stover
laughed shortly, and rose.

'Tm going," he said. "By the way,
do you realize your phone never tuned
off?"

He stepped to the instrument and
spoke into it. "Hello, are you there?
... I heard the connection break,
Sharp. The whisperer's been listen-
ing."

Sharp started moaning. "We've
been heard. I spilled the dope. Now
I'm done for,"

"Good night," said Stover, and
moved toward the door. Sharp got
to his feet. "Wait J I What's to be-
come

me?"

"That's problematical, Sharp. I
can't do anything. I carry my life
in my hand everywhere I go."

"What had I better do?"

Stover thought. Then :

"Go to police headquarters. Look
for a special agent named Congreve.
Tell him any dirty thing you've done,
and it'll land you in a cell. You
should be safe there. Later on, I'll get
in touch with you. We may make a
deal if you'll talk in court."

REYNARDINE PHOGOR and
her stepfather looked up in irri-
tated wonder as the robot servitors in
the reception hall buzzed and rasped
in protest. There was a clanking
scuffle as a robot was being pushed
aside. Then a blue and scarlet giant
stalked in.

"Dillon Stover!" exclaimed Rey-
nardine.

Phogor's frog-face was distorted
with fury. "What new violence—"
he began angrily.

Stover gestured for quiet. "I'm try-
ing to help. About the murder of
Malbrook and its effect on you."

The girl drew herself up. She was
magnificently dressed, with a little
too much sparkle. Her fine eyes glit-
tered disdain. "How can you help?"
she demanded.

"By turning up the real murderer.
That would help you — unless one of
you did it," Stover looked at each in
turn. "Don't call any robots, Phogor.
They'll get smashed all out of work-
ing order. Listen to what I have to
say, and then I'll go."

Phogor and Reynardine looked at
each other. Then: "Say what you
wish," granted Phogor.

"It's about this alleged will," said
Stover. "You, Miss Reynardine, are
very confident of its existence."

She nodded her head, and the light
played on its onyx streakings. "I am
confident. That is, unless Brome
Fielding destroyed it."

"You saw the will?"

"I heard it. You see, it's a televiso
record, picturing Mace announcing
his bequests verbally. In it he rec-
ognized me as his intended wife, and
considers me his principal heir-at-
law."

"Perfectly legal," seconded Phogor
in his mighty voice.

"Would he have kept the will in his
fortified room?" asked Stover. "If he
did, it's probably destroyed. Every-
thing was smashed by the explosion."

"That may have happened." sighed
Reynardine, as though she disliked to
shift the blame for the will's loss from
Fielding.

Stover asked one more question.
"You hate Fielding, Miss Rey-
nardine?"

DEVIL'S PLANET

"That is an insolent remark," be-
gan Phogor, but his stepdaughter
waved him to silence.

"Why not tell Mr. Stover? All the
rest of Pulambar seems to know. Mr.
Fielding wants to marry me."

"Oh," said Stover. "And has he
ever suggested marriage or made love
before?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't
put it on an emotional basis. Says
that he and I were the closest two
persons to Mace, and that we should
marry because of that relationship.
Rather fantastic. And,* 1 she smiled
a little at Stover, "I don't find him
attractive.**

"I think Mr. Stover's unwarranted
inquisition has gone far enough,"
contributed Phogor. "We are both
tired. We have been frank. Let him
be considerate, and leave us,"

Stover bowed, and left.

FT THE reception hall that had been
Malbrook's, Congreve and Field-
ing faced each other above the body of
Gerda.

"Thank heaven I asked you to come
with me," said Fielding, shaken.

Congreve looked at the corpse
again. "It would have been hard to
frame you with this. She's been dead
for hours. Now tell me again."

"A radio phone call. A whispering
voice told me to come here alone.
But I had the inspiration, a lucky one,
to ask you to come with me. You
6ay this was one of your undercover
people? Was she working on this
murder case?"

Someone else entered. It was
Stover, who gave only one look at
Gerda. To Fielding he said: "They
told me at your place you'd come
here,"

"Get out," Fielding said.

"No," demurred Stover. "I'm in
this case up to my neck. Mr. Field-
ing, do you love Reynardine Phogor?
Did you ask her hand in marriage?"

"You're insolent." That was Con-
greve, not Fielding. "You're officious,
too. And you're still under suspi-
cion."

"I know that " said Stover. "That's
why I want to help."

"Leave it to the police," snapped

Fielding. "I ought to demand your
arrest now, Stover. Get out, I say/'

Stover turned to the door. "To-
night," he said over his shoulder,
"I've stood face to face with the mur-
derer of Mace Malbrook."

It was hard to say which started
the most violently, Congreve or Field-
ing.

Stover laughed, and was gone.

CHAPTER XV
Captain Sharp

?*jnSSST! Mr. Stover!"

JL Dillon Stover, stepping out
on the balcony of Malbrook's old
quarters, stopped in the very act of
summoning a flying taxi. He looked
in the direction of the muttered sig-
nal.

At one end of the balcony was a
service stairway. Upon that stair-
way, at a level so that only his head
and shoulders were exposed, stood
someone whose outline in the gloom
was vaguely familiar.
"This way, Mr. Stover!"
He turned and approached, cau-
tiously. Four days of desperate
action, of chasing and being chased,
had made Stover give much attention
to every possibility of danger. If this
was an assassin he was going to be
sorry.

But the man who had hailed him
turned and ran swiftly and furtively
down the stairs. Stover followed, his
body tense and ready for any sort of
action — to fly, to strike out, to beat
off an attack. No such need came.
The two men gained a balcony below
Malbrook's, and here Stover came
close enough to recognize his com-
panion.

"Captain Sharp!"
"I c-came here because — "
Stover waved away the words.
"You're in danger, Sharp. Mortal
danger. I warn you, not because I
value your precious carcass, but be-
cause you may be able to give evi-
dence for me. Your best chance is to
do what I told you. Go and confess
some minor crime and get locked up

■

DEVIL'S PLANET

my duty* Come over to the other end
of the balcony, my flyer's there. You
can come, too, Stover. 1 *

They entered the car. It was a
luxurious one, softly and richly cush-
ioned, most of its hull glassed in*
Fielding took the pilot's seat, a high-
backed metal construction to which,
as regulations in Pulambar ruled, a
parachute was fastened* He buckled
the safety belt across his middle and
took the controls,

"Sit here next to me, Stover," he
commanded. "Sharp, make yourself
comfortable in the rear. I can trust
you better than Stover. You're only
a petty adventurer of some kind. He's
a murder suspect."

This with a sneer. Stover swal-
lowed it with difficulty and took the
benchlike chair where a co-pilot gen-
erally sat. Like Fielding, he buckled
on the safety belt. Fielding dropped
into a cushioned chair behind him.
The rest of the cabin was dim, with
several other seats and lockers. The
flyer took off.

mf M/HERE to, sir?' 1 asked Sharp,
WW as though he were flying
the craft and asking for directions.

"My quarters, across town," was the
reply. "There's a place for you both

to stay."

"Both?" repeated Stover. "You
aren't offering to put me up, Field-
ing?"

"I'm telling you that you're stay-
ing with me. The police haven't
pinned anything to you, but just now,
with this shabby Captain Sharp as a
helper, you look a trifle riper for—"

"But you were going to guard me at
your place, not turn me over to the
law!" cried Captain Sharp.

So strident was his cry of protest
that Stover turned to look at him. He
saw Sharp rising half out of his seat,
hand flung forward in appeal — saw,
too, in the shadows of the cabin
another human figure. The head and
shoulders seemed to hunch and ex-
pand, the face looked blank and color-

1 CSS

Thinking of it afterward, Stover
realized that he had been made fur-
tive by the constant thrusting upon
him of danger. At the time he

thought and diagnosed not at all. He
threw off the safety strap and hurled
himself out of his seat on the co-pilot's
bench, and flat on the floor so that the
metal bench was between him and
whatever was lurking in the cabin.

"Fielding !" he yelled as he hit the
floor. "Sharp! Danger — someone in
here with us."

Fielding, too, glanced back. His

face writhed.

"You saw— that— " he was trying to
form something. His hands fumbled
strangely at the controls.

An explosion tore their vehicle to
bits. Stover's hearing sense, even
while it was shocked and deafened,
sorted out the rending of fabric, the
starting of joints, the crash of tough
glass. He heard, too, the brief half-
scream which was all that Sharp had
time to utter before destruction over-
took him.

His prone position, in a narrow nook
between bench and control board,
saved Stover. He was not thrown
out, though the lower half of the
flyer — all that remained intact-
turned a complete flop in the high
air over Pulambar. He saw the
metal pilot's seat go bounding away.
Fielding hanging limp in the safety
strap. Would the attached parachute
open in time to save Fielding?

Stover had no time to watch. For
the wreckage, with him wedged
among it, was falling into an abyss.

It struck a wire-woven festoon of
walk-ways and communication cords
between two towers. The wires,
though parting, broke the downward
plunge a little. Stover managed to
writhe along toward the controls. He
got his hands on the keyboard, mani-
pulating it frantically. The thing
worked. A crippled blast went pup-
pap-pup, but there was no stopping
the awful plunge.

Stover saw the lower building-
tops charging up at him, saw too the
silvery expanse of a great pool of
water that, set among colored lights,
did duty as a public square. If he
could only land in that. The gravity
of Mars was less than Earth's, the fall
was consequently slower.

He clutched again at the controls.

STARTLING STORIES

The blast, not enough to check the
fall, could change the position of the
hurtling slab of wreckage. He lev-
eled it out. As he had dared hope,
the thing swooped slantwise in its
fall. It was approaching the pool at
a fearful clip, but not vertically.
Before he knew whether to rejoice or
despair the shock came, bruising and
breath-taking of impact.

The heavy wreck sprang upward
like a flat rock skimming along the
surface, and Stover was thrown clear
at last. High he flew, and down he
came, head first. Somehow he got his
hands into diving position. Then,
with a mighty splash, the only lake of
water on all Mars received his body
safely.

CHAPTER XVI
Mai brack's Archives

STOVER struck the bottom of the
lake with almost unimpeded
force, but it was soft. Turning around
upon it, he let himself float to the top.
It was cool, damp, restful. His head
broke water, and he lay low between
the ripples, washing the bottom-mud
out of his curls and taking stock of
the situation.

The walks along the rim of this pool
were lined with noisy sight-seers, all
gazing to a distant point in the center
of the water. Great turmoil showed
there, and several light flying ma-
chines hovered and dipped above the
spot where the wreckage had sunk.
Stover struck out for the nearest walk.
"Help me out!" he called to those
gathered there, and half a dozen hands
reached down to hoist him up.

"What was that splash ?" he de-
manded, to head off any questions and
surmises. "It knocked me right off
into the water.'*

"You ought to sue somebody," ad-
vised a bystander. "Some fool's flying
car came down out of control, it
looked like. I just had a glimpse.
Come and have a drink to warm you
up."

"Thanks, no. I'll get an air-taxi
back to my own place," said Stover.

He sought an elevator that took him
to a rooftop where several taxis loi-
tered. One of them had a heater in-
side, and in it Stover deposited him-
self, directing the pilot to take him
for a leisurely tour while his clothing
dried somewhat. At length Stover
gave the address of Malbrook's fate-
ful apartment.

It would be empty now — or would
it?

Buckalew had come to Malbrook's
balcony, looking for Stover. He had
known that Fielding was there, that
Fielding had a moored aircraft. What
then?

Stover's mind went back to the hap-
penings of the morning. Buckalew
had been absent from the parlor when
Gerda was killed in the closet. Later
had come evidence that the explosion
was engineered from below by some
strange elascoid device. And then the
assault by the draped figure. Later,
the mysterious being was gone, while
Buckalew had hauled Stover up from
his painful lodgement between those
forked cables. Buckalew had been
magnificent then. Resourceful, strong,
heroic— but mysterious.

"But if he'd wanted to kill me,"
reflected Stover, "he couldn't have
done it then. Too many curious fly-
ing folk hovering around, Later, at
noon, Sharp seems to have been vis-
ited by the same draped whisperer I
saw. Was Buckalew with me at that
time? I can't remember."

He counted the dead in his mind.
First Malbrook, then Gerda, then
bnarp. And perhaps Fielding. He
himself had almost been added to the
list. And, for all his struggles, he
was still far from the solution

"Here's your place, sir," the pilot
broke m on his thoughts swung in to
Malbrook's deserted and darkened
balcony,

"Have you an extra radium torch?"
asked Stover. "If 10p ru b it>
1 hanks, that's a good one."

He paid for the torch, the journey
and the heater, adding a handsome tip.
inen he dismounted to the balcony
Letting the taxi fly away, he entered
the now deserted and lightless hall
where once before he had stricken
Bromc Fielding down and had

DEVIL'S PLANET

locked at a door that forthwith blew
off in his very face.

HE TURNED on the radium torch
he had bought. That same door
was partially repaired now, rehinged
and fastened to the jamb with a great
metal seal. Stover studied that seal.
It was fused to the place where the
lock had been, and marked with an
official stamp. Police had put it in
place to keep out meddlers like him-
self.

But Stover had come prepared, in
his tunic pocket was a small ray pro-
jector that had survived the fall and
the soaking. Drawing it and turning
it on, he rapidly melted away the seal.
He flung open the door with a creak
and entered the blasted apartment.

Plainly it had not been touched
since last he had stood inside it, dis-
guised as a robot, with the Martian
mechanic Girra. By the light of his
radium torch, he began to make a new
inspection. The elascoid stain was
still on the floor near the half-de-
tached ventilator device.

Stover looked at it once again, then
turned his attention to the metal-
plated walls. He tapped them once,
then again, at regular intervals. They
gave a muffled clank, indicative of
their massive construction. So he
progressed along for a space. Then,
on the rear wall, the clank sounded
higher, more vibrant — almost a jingle.
"The plating's thin" decided
Stover, and brought his torch close

to see.

He found no visible juncture, and
resumed his tappings. By then he
defined a rectangular hollow within
the wall, about ten inches by fourteen.
A hiding hole, cleverly disguised.

Again Stover plied his light, and
this time he made a discovery. The
wall at that point had been lightly
coated with metallic veneer, the exact
tint and shade of the wall. Under it
the joinings of the wall cupboard
would be hidden. Why, and by whom?
Not Malbrook, Stover decided at
once. That cupboard had been de-
vised for his use, probably his con-
stant use* Then someone who had
been here since the explosion wanted
to seal and hide the place until later,

when the guilt was fixed.

"Yes, fixed on an innocent man,

decided Stover wrathfully. "Then,

with the police away, the hole could

be opened and whatever's inside taken

out." ,

He cut the beam of his ray until it
would gush out as narrow as a needle
and as hot as a comet's nose. Care-
fully he sliced through the tempered
metal of the wall-plate, along the
edges of the hollow rectangle. The
piece of thin metal fell out. He caught
it before it clattered on the floor, and
set it carefully down. His torch
turned radiance into the recess he had
exposed.

Not much within, only a sheaf of
papers and a round thing like a roll
of gleaming tape. He studied it first.
It looked like the sound track of a
film, or a televiso transcription. Rey-
nardine Phogor had said that Mal-
brook's will was in such a form. Was
this the will, or something to do with

it?

He saw that one edge of the strip

was mutilated, as if roughly cut away.
And it had been hidden here, in what
was the safest hiding place in all Pu-
lambar until someone like himself
came with a clue and an inspiration.
Pocketing the little roll. Stover
turned his attention to the papers. At
the top of the first was a title in big
capitals:

CONFIDENTIAL REPORT

KISER DETECTIVE AGENCY

ST, LOUIS, MO.

"Here, I know about that Kiser
crowd,** Stover told himself at once.
"Political outfit— shady wor k—do
anything for enough money. A high-
class phony like Malbrook would use
just such a detective outfit. But
what's a Pulambar biggy doing with
shyster sleuths clear across space in
St. Louis?* 1

Just below, in the written report,
was the answer to that:

Replying to your inquiries: Dr. Stover's
death laid to natural causes. He was old,
overworked. One or two thought he went
suddenly. Nobody takes such theory seri-
ously. . ,_ u-

No information to be had on his con-
densation experiments. Work said to be
almost complete.

STARTLING STORIES

His grandson, Dillon Stover, has been
trained to same career and is to continue
where Dr. Stover left off. Young Stover
on survey trip to Mars. Will visit Pulam-
bar.

THERE, Stover realized, was the
motive for the murder that never
was committed— his own. Malbrook
had grown rich from the monopoly of
water rights on this desert world.
The condenser ray would make rain
possible, spoiling the monopoly and
biting into Malbrook's fortune, the
fortune Reynardine Phogor now
thought to acquire, Malbrook, there-
fore, had determined to get Stover
out of the way, keep him from com-
pleting the work.

Stover put the papers into an in-
side pocket, and turned off his torch.
All in the dark he drew himself to
his full height.

"But it was a double stalk, and a
double plot," he told himself once
again. "While Malbrook was after
me, somebody was after him. I was
nominated for the position of con-
victed murderer. Now it/s gone be-
yond that, and I'm to be killed to keep
my mouth shut. In other words, I
must be close to the solution."

Noise in the reception hall just out-
side. Then a light, a torch like Stov-
er's. It sent a searching ray into the
room, centering here and there, finally
hovering at the recess Stover had
opened. The light shook, as if the
hand that held it was agitated. Then
it quested again, and its circle fell
upon Stover,

His eyes filled with glare, blinding
him. He heard a smothered gasp, and
sprang in that direction. An electro-
automatic spoke, the pellet whining
over his head. Then he was upon the
newcomer. The pistol flew one way,
the radium torch another. The battle
boiled up in the dark.

Hard fists clouted Stover on the
temple and the angle of the jaw, and
his own hands were momentarily tan-
gled in the folds of a flying cloak ; but
he leaned into the storm of blows as
into a hurricane, and got his arms
clamped around a writhing waist
Bringing forward a leg, he crooked it
behind his adversary's knee and threw
himself forward. His weight was not

much on Mars, but it was enough.
Down they went, Stover on top.

"You were going to rub me out,
eh? ' he taunted the writhing, flurry-
ing shape he had pinned down.

Only pantings and rustling an-
swered him. His adversary was sav-
ing every bit of breath for the strug-
gle. Again a fist struck Stover on
the nose, jolting tears into his eyes,
but he worked his hands to a throat
and fiercely tightened his grip. Fin-
gers tore at his wrists, but they were
not strong or cunning enough to dis-
lodge that strangle hold. Stover felt
fierce exultation flood him

"You i tried to kill me," he gritted.
Now I'll kill you,"
At that moment, more light burst
from the front of the hall.

"Reynardine," boomed Phogor.
You slipped out alone, but I guessed
you d come here after the will, I fol-
lowed."

As his radium flare flooded the place
with glow, Stover sprang up and back.

lie gazed anxiously at his late adver-
sary.

It was Reynardine Phogor, rumbled
and half-fainting, her hands at her
throat.

CHAPTER XVII
The Roundup

vfVfc/'HAT does this mean?" Pho-
W * gor demanded, in the voice
ot a thunder spirit. He carried a pistol
with which he threatened Stover.

Reynardine sat up. Gasping and
choking, she managed to speak. "This
man was hiding here, knowing that I
would come, so that he could attack
me.

"Knowing you would come?" echoed
Stover sharply. "How would I know
that? It was you who attacked me—
firing with your pistol."

"You said that the will would be
hidden here," she charged. "My step-
father knew that I would head for
this place. Undoubtedly you knew the
same. And it was you who attacked
I fired in self-defense."

That last was quite true. Stover felt

DEVIL'S PLANET

abashed and angry with himself. Yet
he did not bring himself to apologize.

(I I did not know it was you. I
thought it was a man," he explained.

"Daughter, did he hurt you?" Pho-
gor asked. "Because if he did — M

"Careful," broke in Reynardine,
who was suddenly the calmest of the
three. "His body would be a bad piece
of evidence against you. Otherwise, it
would give me great pleasure to see
you shoot him/*

Stover was examining his sprained
hand which ached after the scuffle* He
hoped devoutly that he had done his
last fighting for the night, at least.

"Let me explain one simple item of
the business," he attempted. "I know
little or nothing about the will. When
you mentioned it at your own place, I
asked if it might be here. I didn't
say it was here. Indeed, I had no way
of telling. Perhaps we've both
jumped at conclusions, Miss Reynar-
dine,"

"You are clever at explanations.
Stover," Phogor bellowed at him. His
great frog-mouth was hard-set and
cruel, and he glared yellowly out of
his blob eyes. "I intend to escort you
to the headquarters of Congreve. He
will thank me for this evidence against
you."

"But," returned Stover hastily, "he
won't fail to ask what you were doing
here."

Reynardine looked at her stepfather.
"This man is a savage and perhaps a
criminal, but he speaks the truth," she
said. "It had better not be known that
you and I came here tonight.**

Phogor shrugged his shoulders in
acceptance of that. To Stover he said :
"This means that I won't injure or de-
tain you unless you do something to
force action. But you have struck and
injured my daughter. That won't pass
without some retaliation on my part
later. Now I give you leave to go."

"I don't need leave from you to go,"
retorted Stover, and strode away
toward the balcony.

Feet hurried after him. It was Rey-
nardine.

"Mr. Stover," she breathed, "I've
been catching back my wind and col-
lecting my wits all these past few mo-
ments. And, though it was I who got

the slamming and choking, I feel less
upset about it than my stepfather. For
one thing," and she was able to smile
quite graciously, "I shouldn't have
suggested that you were a criminal^ I
don't really think you're guilty."

"I know I'm not guilty," he re-
turned, "but with everything so com-
plicated and mysterious, how can any-
one else be sure about me — except the
actual murderer of your fiance?"

PHOGOR approached, furious
again. "You dare to insinuate
that my daughter is guilty?"

"Mr. Stover is insinuating nothing,"
Reynardine calmed the Venusian. "He
came here to search for evidence, just
as we did. And he is more unselfish.
We want the will ; he only wants a clue
to the murder."

"I'm being selfish, too," Stover as-
sured her, for something bade him be
loath at accepting favors from her. "I
jammed myself into a situation where
I must solve this case or be the next
victim, or maybe the victim after the
next. Well, Miss Reynardine, you're
being very kind. But what does this
all mean? Why this sudden new at-
titude on your part?"

"I don't know," she said. "I think I
trust you because you're the best-built
tall man I ever saw, and with the
bluest eyes. Yes," she continued,
touching her throat, "and with the
strongest hands. I'm able to testify
that you fight both hard and fair,"

Phogor snorted like a horse in a
rainstorm. "This, daughter, is ridic-
ulous. You know nothing about this
man Stover."

"Only the things I have just said,"
she replied to her father, but with her
brilliant eyes still on Stover. "I in-
tend to learn more about him."

Stover's reaction to this almost ag-
gressive demonstration of approval
was one of baffled suspicion. He
doubted if he was of such character
and attraction as to sweep this proud
and artificial beauty so completely off
her feet. Looking at her, he knew
that she could be a dangerous person
if she cared to use her charm. Like a
saving vision came the thought of Bee
MacGowan, still in prison that he
might have a chance to clear himself

STARTLING STORIES

and her, too.

"You leave me embarrassed, Miss
Reynardine," he said. "So much so
that I'll have to say good-night and
depart/ 1

"Wait," she said. "Why don't we
come with you to your place and talk
this thing out?"

"Talk it out?" he repeated. "Well,
come on. I'll signal for a taxi."

Buckalew was waiting in the parlor
as Stover let his self-invited guests
in. One of Buckalew's hands held a
fluttering gray cloth, the mantle that
had cloaked the figure Stover had met
on the girders. With an exclamation,
Stover snatched it and looked at it.

"Where did this come from?" he de-
manded.

"I found it hidden in a corner of the
balcony," replied Buckalew. "Prob-
ably the one who wore it dropped it
there and hopped aboard one of the
fleet planes that came around to in-
vestigate. I also found the wiring
that was used to magnetize the walls.
But who are these people?"

"You know them. Miss Reynardine
Phogor and her stepfather. They seem
to feel that a round-robin discussion
will clarify some points of the Mai-
brook case."

"Perhaps they're right," said Buck-
alew. "Will you all sit down?"

EYNARDINE drew herself up
queenly fashion. "I won't

sit down," she said. "Mr. Stover, I per-
suaded you to bring me here because I
think you got something tonight that I
mean to have — the transcription that
embodies the will of Mace Malbrook."

He looked into her searching eyes,
"What makes you think that?"

"Because, just before our little
struggle, my torch showed me a wall-
cupboard that had been rayed open.
Nothing in it Well," she held out her
hand, "give it to me. Father, if we
have to be violent here it will be easier
explained than at poor Mace's old
lodgings."

"That is quite right, daughter,"
agreed Phogor as he drew his pistol.
"I think you were clever to switch
the scene of action here. Now, if you
please, Mr. Stover."

"Hold on!" cried Stover hotly, his

j»

»»

temper rising, "I'm handing nothing
over to you."

"That," said Reyardine Phogor, "is
an admission that you have some-
thing." She turned to her stepfather,
"If he won't hand it over, take it from
him."

Buckalew turned swiftly to a side-
table and snatched open a drawer. But
before he could dart his hand into that
drawer, Phogor fired a pellet that
knocked the side-table flying across
the room. Out of the drawer fell a
small handsome electro-automatic.

"No weapons, Mr. Buckalew," cau-
tioned the Venusian deeply. 'You had
better stay out of this altogether."
To Stover he said: "I give you one
more chance, Mr. Stover, to give me
whatever you found at Malbrook's.

"Stover will do nothing of the kind,
spoke the stern voice of Congreve.

The police head had come in, all un-
invited and unnoticed, and had heard
most of what had led up to the tense
situation. He, too, held a drawn pistol.
He extended his free hand.

"I take it you've finally got evi-
dence," he told Stover. "Well, hand it
over. This isn't an amateur with a
society gun, young fellow. It's a
police officer. Quick!"

Stover sighed in resignation and
drew forth the papers he had found.
Congreve accepted them with a nod,
moved back and looked through them
quickly.

"Better than I thought," he com-
mented. "Here's the definite proof."

Stover took a step toward him.
Congreve tried to put away the slip of
paper, but Stover spied some words on
it.

Mr. Malbrook:

I did what you said to do about Dr,
Stover. Now I want pay, or you'll be just
as dead. ...

"Who wrote that?" demanded
Stover, walking right up to the muzzle
of Congreve's weapon.

"As if you didn't know," Congreve
grinned harshly, "It's signed. And
the man who signed it is dead to-
night."

"I didn't have time to look at every-
thing in that sheaf of notes," Stover
assured him, "If it was written by

»*

DEVIL'S PLANET

'You know whom it was written by.
They just fished him out of the water."
The grin vanished. "What was left of
him and Brome Fielding's flying car.

»»

SHARP! It had been Captain
Sharp, then, who had brought his
grandfather to death — and at the or-
ders of Mace Malbrook. Congreve
saw knowledge dawn in Stover's face,
and chuckled. The police head plainly
enjoyed a dramatic situation.

"You want to make a statement and
save everybody trouble?" he said. "Let
me help you. Sharp was hired to kill
your grandfather. You met him at the
Zaarr. You quarreled. Later — "

"You're crazy!" exploded Stover.
"I'd have gladly killed both Malbrook
and Sharp if I'd known they were
guilty of murdering my grandfather.
He was an asset to the universe, while
they were liabilities. But I didn't
know, and someone else killed them,"

Reynardine Phogor spoke up hur-
riedly.

"I can vouch for Mr. Stover. He
has been with me almost all evening
since leaving the Zaarr."

Phogor and Buckalew stared at the
girl. Stover laughed.

"Well tried. Miss Reyardine," he
jibed. "You want Congreve to leave
me here with you, so that you can find
out what else I know about this case,
at pistol-point, eh?" He addressed the
officer again, "If you please, Con-
greve."

He was about to offer Congreve all
the bits of evidence he had collected —
surmises, secrets, brief glimpses, the
bit of elascoid fabric, everything. But
Congreve was so intent on something
he had to say that he took no notice.

"Since Stover won't make an admis-
sion, it remains to convict him. He is
right in making a last-ditch stand of
this. Someone may bob up yet as the
guilty one. But I want all concerned
to come along with me."

"Come where?" asked Buckalew,

"To Brome Fielding's quarters."

"Brome Fielding's!" cried Stover,
his voice shaking in spite of himself.
"Is he—"

He had almost asked if Brome Field-
ing had survived that plunge out of
the wrecked car. He broke off in time,

and Congreve unwittingly answered
the question for him.

"Fielding has found the will of
Mace Malbrook in a safe at the office
they both shared, Since everybody
here is mixed up in the murder some-
how, I want you to sit in on the hear-
ing of it. We'll pick up Amyas Crofts
and go right now."

CHAPTER XVIII
The Testament of Mace Malbrook

THE room was dim as they entered
it, dim and quiet, with chairs for
all and a blank televiso screen against
the rearmost wall. Two figures sat in
a corner behind some radio apparatus
with a projector attached, One of
these stood up and spoke. It was
Brome Fielding.

"Phogor and Reynardine," said
Fielding, "take these two chairs in the
center. Buckalew, sit just behind
Miss Reynardine. Congreve, you're
here to investigate and protect. Maybe
you'd like to sit next to the door,
where you can keep an eye on every-
body? Mr, Crofts, you may take the
chair on the other side of the door.
Mr. Stover," and Fielding's voice be-
came an unpleasant growl, "I suppose
you're to be congratulated from es-
caping from that wreck."

"You didn't expect me to live
through it?"

"As a matter of fact, I rather did,
It was myself that surprised me by
surviving. Thank all the gods of all
the planets for that automatic para-
chute."

"You two are talking in riddles/*
said Congreve coldly. "Better tell me
the answers."

"I'll explain fully when we've had
the will," promised Fielding, "Prob-
ably you'll be glad to hear the whole
truth about that accident which you
tell me finished poor Sharp. Sit next
to me, Stover."

"Why next to you?" asked Stover,

"Because I don't trust you. I want
to keep watch over you."

"Isn't Congreve here to do the
watching?" mocked Stover.

STARTLING STORIES

Amyas Crofts said: "Put Stover
next to me, and turn off the lights.
Once he threatened me."

Stover looked at Fielding, then at
the silent, hulking figure that sat half-
hidden behind the radio machinery.

"My bodyguard," volunteered Field-
ing, as he saw the direction of Stover's
glance. "I hired him at once when I
heard that you were still alive."

"Not very complimentary to the
police," rejoined Stover. "Well, if
he's an honest bruiser, let him sit be-
tween us. I don't think I trust you,
either."

Fielding was silent for a moment.
Then : "Not a bad idea, Lubbock, will
you trade chairs with me and keep
watch over Mr. Stover? If he acts
strangely at all, you will know what
to do."

The bodyguard made no reply, nor
did he move until Fielding put a hand
on his shoulder. Then his great hulk
shifted smoothly to the chair nearest
Stover. Fielding switched of! the
last dim light, and they heard him
fumbling with the controls of his
machinery.

"This is a televiso representation,
with transcribed sound track," he an-
nounced in the gloom. "It depicts the
verbal making of the last will and test-
ament of my partner, the late Mace
Malbrook."

A click, and the screen lighted up.

They all saw the image of Mace Mal-
brook, in full color. He sat beside a
table on which was placed a micro-
phone to pick up his voice. In one
hand he held a glass that seemed to be
full of guiL A powerful drink,
thought Stover, to be sipped while
he recorded an important legal docu-
ment.

Malbrook's pictured face looked
pale and sardonic, and his mouth was
set in the tightest of smiles.

"My name," came his formal voice,
"is Mace Malbrook. The date, Earth
time, is May eighteenth, twenty-nine
hundred and thirty-six."

"May eighteenth!" breathed Stover.
It was the day on which he had come
to Mars, the day before the night in
which Mace Malbrook had died, Mal-
brook's voice went on:

"The extent of my property hold-

ings and controls can be ascertained by
consulting the public records of the
community of Pulambar. I make this
statement at this time, recognizing
that I may possibly come to my death
at the hands of one Dillon Stover."

Stover heard a sigh from someone,
perhaps Reynardine Phogor. He
divined, rather than saw or heard, a
leaning forward of Congreve. In the
mind of the police head, Stover's guilt
was again confirmed, though probably
Malbrook had said what he had said
simply in looking forward to a duel,
Again the voice of the dead man:

"In the event of my death, I request
that this recording be properly ob-
served by my two heirs-at-law, Brome
Fielding and Reynardine Phogor; and
they be accompanied by reputable and
responsible witnesses."

That was the usual introduction
to a will so recorded. The image of
Malbrook sipped from the glass, and
the voice added:

"I nearby make definite statement
that, although each of these two heirs
expects to receive at my death the
overwhelming bulk of my holdings
and interests, I am obliged to neglect
one of them in order to treat the other
as I consider deserved. I now make
my formal bequests and decrees. First:
That all my debts be paid, and a fu-
neral service be conducted for me in a
manner befitting one of my standing
and reputation. Second — "

A break in the speech. The figure
of Malbrook rose from its seat, as if to
lend emphasis to what would follow.

"Second," came words in a louder
and sterner voice, "I direct that my
former partner, Brome Fielding, be
arrested, and charged with my wilful
murder for his own selfish profit!"

Loud, raucous confusion. With a
loud buzz and snap, the radio
mechanism shut off and the screen
darkened. But the voice of Dillon
Stover rang on the air that still
vibrated with the accusation.

"Let nobody move!*'

Stover was on his feet, near the
door where sat Congreve and Amyas
Crofts. He flashed on his radium
torch, which he had never put aside
since his adventure at Malbrook's, and
it filled the room with brightness.

DEVIL'S PLANET

It showed all the others risen, all but
the mantled bodyguard Fielding had
called Lubbock. Fielding himself
had moved back from the radio con-
trols, toward a blank-seeming wall.

"Don't try to duck through any
hidden panel, Fielding" warned
Stover, and his free hand whipped
out his ray thrower, "Someone turn
on the room lights . . , Thanks, Con-
greve. Now, while Fielding is still
pulling himself together, let me say
that I pulled a trick to get this case
out in the open, and it's succeeded*
I added my voice to that of Malbrook.
Fielding murdered his partner and
the others, for the reason you have
just heard. He wanted all of Mal-
brook's holdings for himself. And he
tried to lay the blame on me.'*

"Mr. Stover — n began Congreve
angrily.

"Don't interfere now," spoke up
Buckalew suddenly and clearly. "I
respect the law, but not ail the de-
cisions of all its representatives.
Stover must be allowed to finish."

HE MADE a grab at the front of
Phogor's tunic, and possessed
himself of the Venusian f s electro-au-
tomatic. Congreve subsided.

Fielding had jumped forward
again, standing close to Stover. He
seemed to dare an assault from the
ray -thrower,

"You're convicting yourself,
Stover," he charged. "I wanted this
will — which has been tampered with
— to be heard, and properly witnessed,
before the final bands tightened
around you. But now — Congreve!
This man is armed and desperate, but
I know he'll never defeat the law. Be-
fore you all, I want to tell what hap-
pened earlier tonight.**

He pointed a finger at Stover. "He
and Captain Sharp accosted me. I
took them into my flying machine, in-
tending to turn them over to the po-
lice. When we were in the air, and
I announced my intention, Stover set
off some kind of a bomb. I only
escaped because I was strapped in the
pilot's seat and had an automatic
parachute."

"Certainly you had, since it was you
who did the bombing;" Stover

shouted him down. "That pilot's seat
was the best possible protection,
Fielding. It had a high metal back
to fend off a blast. The blast itself
kicked you loose, seat and all, and the
parachute let you down. I escaped
by chance and desperation and the
luck that wouldn't let a swine like you
get away with this dirty string of
murders! And there was another
figure in the car with us."

"You mean Sharp?" put in Con-
greve who has been trying to edge in a
word for some time.

"No, not Sharp. Someone — some-
thing else."

"Preposterous!" snorted Fielding.

Stover turned back to him. "Get
back a little, Fielding, I want to look
at this bodyguard of yours, the fel-
low you said you'd hired to protect
you from me? Why is he so silent?
Why doesn't he get out of the chair?"

When Fielding refused to move,
Stover pushed him violently aside.
"Look!" he cried to the others.

They looked.

"That's no bodyguard," said Con-
greve at once. "It isn't a man at all."

"It's nothing alive," put in Amyas
Crofts, stepping forward.

"No," said Stover. "Certainly not.
Just what is the thing?"

CHAPTER XIX
The Murder Weapon

THEY were all staring now.
The draped hulk was not a man.
It was a dummy. Its head, rising
above the folds of the mantle, was
flesh-colored and lifelike, but the
full light that now flooded the room
showed it up for a painted sham. Its
eyes and lips were flat stencil-like
blotches, its skin looked taut and
puffy.

"It seems to be some sort of hollow
shell," commented Stover. "You
moved it very easily from chair to
chair, Fielding. I wonder if it isn't
an inflated shape of thin elascoid —
like a toy bolloon at a carnival?"
He lifted his ray thrower, as though
to send a beam at the thing.

—

STARTLING STORIES

"Don't!" Fielding almost screamed,
"Why not?" demanded Stover, and
his weapon drew a bead on the lumpy,
inflated head. "Why so compas-
sionate over a big air-blown doll? I
think I'll just deflate your friend the
bodyguard/*

His finger seemed to tremble on the
trigger-switch of his weapon. Field-
ing gave another cry, wordless and
desperate, and flung himself forward.
He caught Stover's wrist, deflecting
the aim of the ray thrower.

"You can't do that!" he chattered.
"You don't know — you can't know!"
Stover threw him clear, with an ef-
fortless jerk of his arm.

"I didn't know," he agreed, "but I'm
beginning to find out. Up to now it's
been guesswork. Fielding, you've
given your show away. If I shot that
image — as Malbrook shot the one that
was painted to look like me, as poor
Gerda slapped the unknown shape
that jostled her in the dark closet —
or if it received the slightest jar, as
the trigger-devices gave to the image
of Buckalew at my apartment, and to
the dummy in your flying car — it
would explode. The detonation would
blow us all to bits, including you
who figured to explode it if worst
came to worst here — but who also
figured to escape yourself."

Fielding had recovered himself.
He stood between Stover and the
dummy.

"I protest at this farce!" he cried
to Congreve. "Arrest Stover. If you
can't do it alone, deputize these others
to overpower and disarm him. I ac-
cuse him of tampering with the re-
corded will of Mace Malbrook and of
trying to saddle me with the blame
for these dreadful crimes. Probably
you'll find, from this additional evi-
dence, that he's definitely the mur-
derer."

"Let me get a word in edgewise,"
spoke up Reynardine Phogor. "All
these recriminations are whizzing by
mighty fast, but Fielding is right
about one thing. Those last words
that came from the television screen
weren't in the voice of Mace Mal-
brook. They were in the voice of Dil-
lon Stover."

"You're right," Stover admitted.

He put away his radium torch and
produced another thing from his
pocket, a small microphone. "I was
near enough to the radio to reach out
and switch off the sound track at what
I thought was a good moment. And
with this mike I substituted my own
voice. But I spoiled no will. Field-
ing had done that already. Look at
this."

Reaching into his pocket again, he
dug out the ragged coil of film he
had found in Malbrook's cupboard.

"Damaged, but partially salvage-
able. It's Malbrook's true spoken
will, undoubtedly cut away from this
transcription. Take it, Congreve."
And he passed it over.

PJHOGOR was looking into the
opened radio mechanism. "Stover
has spoken truth. This film has been
cut and spliced, a new track worked
in."

"Probably Fielding's substituted
piece of film is beautifully faked to
sound like Malbrook's voice."

"That will," said Fielding, "leaves
everything to me,"

"It would. That's why you faked
it," charged Stover, "Sound labora-
tories can diagnose and show the
truth of all this."

Congreve put away the coil of film.
"Everybody's been taking my job out
of my hands lately," he growled.
"Now I ask, with all the courtesy in
the world, to be allowed back into the
police business. I pronounce you all
under arrest until this is cleared up."

"Let me finish," cried Stover.
"I demand a proper court hearing,"
Fielding began.

"You'll be heard— and condemned
—right here!" Stover said tersely.
"This explosive dummy you've
brought in among us is the evidence
that answers the riddle. A fabric of
thin, strong elascoid, made into an air-
tight form that can be inflated into a
very lifelike man. Without air in
it, the tube is so slim that it can be
inserted into a locked room through
as narrow a hole as a ventilator
pipe. But the inside's coated with
a nitroglycerin oil, enough to wreck
a small area. When inflated from
the other side of the hole by a

DEVIL'S PLANET

r 3

small pump or a tank of compressed
air, it becomes a shape that scares the
victim, makes him strike or shoot —
and brings about his own death."

'You're crazy as well as criminal,"
raged Fielding, "You can't prove that
fantastic theory."

"But I can," said Stover. "You
seemed to be in the clear at Mal-
brook's because I knocked you down
before the explosion. But you'd just
finished inflating the elascoid balloon
that looked like me. Inside the room,
Malbrook saw it and fired. It finished
him and poor Prraal,"

From his pocket he drew out a
shred of elascoid, the bit he had sal-
vaged from the ventilator of the
closet where Gerda had died. "Take
charge of this, Congreve. It's Exhibit
A, a piece of such a figure. I'll ex-
plain more fully in a moment."

Again he turned on Fielding. "Most
of the fabric of those dummies can
be traced as stains — little smears left
by the violence of the explosion. And
we can examine this one which is still
intact. Fielding, you long envied
Malbrook his half of the great enter-
prises you ran together. You long
planned this sort of murder — had
elascoid dummies ready to finish him
and any others you might need to kill.

"When Malbrook decided to fight
a duel with me, you struck, figuring
I would be found guilty. But you
struck too late. For one thing, you
found out what Malbrook's will pro-
vided. That was why you wanted to
marry Reynardine Phogor. When she
refused you, you faked the will. Con-
greve brought us all in to hear it.
And you prepared a specimen of your
elascoid-and-nitroglycerin handiwork
to kill us all if anything went wrong.
Instead of which, it's going to con-
vict you!

"You have proved your point,
snarled Fielding without further sub-
terfuge.

IELDING was backing toward
the far wall, and in front of him
he held the elascoid dummy, divested
of its robe. Buckalew, Stover and
Congreve pointed their weapons, and
Fielding only laughed.
"You daren't shoot at my elascoid

»»

him,

A dark

a rectan-

friend," he warned. "That would dis-
pose of all of us. But I'll take the
risk, if you force me."

"By your actions you are confess-
ing, Fielding," said Congreve sharply.

"Yes, and I'm escaping," snarled
Fielding. "A few more deaths won't
make my punishment any tougher."

"Not after the people you've al-
ready killed," agreed Stover. "Better
grab him, Congreve, before he cracks."

"How far do you expect to get,
Fielding?" demanded Congreve.

"You'll never know. I know Pulam-
bar — hidings, strongholds, disguises.
Stand still, all of you. There's a hid-
den panel, as Stover surmised. If
you move before I get through I'll ex-
plode my elascoid friend."

Putting a hand behind
pressed a stud on the wall,
section slid away, revealing
gle of darkness.

"Good-by," he taunted them. "Here,
now you may have the evidence Mr.
Stover so cunningly puzzled out*"

And he hurled the inflated figure
across the room.

Strover realized later that what fol-
lowed had been packed into a very
brief interval. It was only that his
mind was working at rocket-ship
speed, outrunning his muscles and re-
actions, that made everything seem to
transpire in slow-mation.

He sprang to catch the elascoid
dummy. It was in his thoughts that
if someone should die to save the oth-
ers it might as well be himself who
took the explosion against his big
body. But somebody else moved more
swiftly.

Buckalew!

From the side of the room, Bucka-
lew leaped at an angle. He caught the
thing in his arms, and rushed it into
the secret passageway by which
Fielding was trying to escape. At that
instant, the blast came.

Reynardine Phogor screamed, her
stepfather caught and steadied her.
Stover and Congreve recovered from
the blast of air and pushed their way
through the gaping, smoke-filled
panel.

The passageway was bulged as to
walls and ceiling, but had not sprung
apart anywhere. Stover stumbled

STARTLING STORIES

over the prostrate form of Buckalew,
and recovered in time to keep from
stepping upon the manifestly dead
body of Fielding. Of the dummy re-
mained only another of the elascoid
stains.

Stover felt heart-sick as he drew
back from Fielding's corpse. Then he
heard Buckalew speak.

"I'm all right, Dillon."

As he spoke, Buckalew struggled
into a sitting posture. His clothes
were in rags, but he smiled cheerfully.

"All right?' repeated Congreve,
fumbling around in the passageway.
"All right when that nitroglycerin
blew a leg off of you?"

HE POINTED to where it lay,
foot, knee and part of the thigh,
in a corner. Stover stared miserably.
But Buckalew laughed. He drew up
the knee he had left, and clasped his
arms around it.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he told
Congreve gently. "Pick it up and see,"

The police investigator did so, gin-
gerly. He uttered a startled exclama-
tion as he dropped the leg in surprise.
The limb fell with a metallic clank,

"Artificial!" he snorted, as though
this were a prank played deliberately
on him. "What next in this space-
dizzy case? An artificial leg on a
man."

"In a manner of speaking," agreed
the victim of the accident "Stover
can help me, Congreve. My leg can
be repaired. Don't you think you had
better call the coroner for Fielding —
and then see about releasing Bee Mac-
Gowan right away so she can get in
touch with my young friend here?"

Congreve glanced from one to the
other and then took a swift look at the
body of Brome Fielding. "Yeah," he
said a bit sourly. And he stalked out,
herding the incoming group back out
ahead of him.

Dillon Stover knelt anxiously be-
side his injured friend. For a few
moments the two were alone with
only the dead Fielding for company.

"Robert," said Stover, marveling,
"you shouldn't have taken such a
chance with a — a game leg. I was
going to try to capture that dummy
and prevent an explosion. And your

»»

»*

— your agility amazes me. I've lived
intimately with you, and I never
dreamed you had an artificial leg."

"Listen, Dillon," said Buckalew in
the saddest accents Stover had ever
heard him use, "I talked Congreve
into going out so I could tell you
something that only your grandfather
and Malbrook and Fielding knew. I've
tried to keep it from you, but you are
the one person really entitled to know
— and, besides, I need your help now.

"Of course, and you shall have it!
cried Stover vehemently. "I owe you
a lot — including my life. Are you
sure you aren't injured elsewhere,
Robert! Perhaps internally?"

"Only on the surface, Dillon," said
Buckalew, smiling faintly. "You
don't yet understand. How can a — a
thing with an artificial body be in-
jured?"

"But you — what?" exclaimed
Stover, his blue eyes widening in a
startled way as he gazed at the face
of the speaker. "What did you say?"

"I have more than one artificial leg,
Dillon. I'm a fake through and
through — legs, arms, body and head,
I am made of metal covered with syn-
thetic rubber flesh. I am the last robot
your grandfather made. That's why
he gave me the name of Robert."

CHAPTER XX
Table for Three

AGAIN they sat at the Zaarr—
Stover, Bee, and Buckalew. It
was the same table from which Stover
had once risen hotly to smash Mal-
brook's sneering face.

"Somehow," Stover was saying,
"I'm not as shocked as I should be,
Buckalew. I think I knew that you
were a robot all along."

He gestured at the food and drink
served for only two. "This, subcon-
sciously, was my first clue. Your's
isn't a normal body, or you'd have to
nourish it at times. And then your
eternal youth; you knew my grand-
father intimately, and you're not a
day older now than then. Again,
when that explosion happened at our

DEVIL'S PLANET

lodgings, you threw yourself in its
way and saved me."

"You gave credit for that rescue to
the poor robot servitor," reminded
Buckalew.

"At first I did. But when you sighed
over *A robot saved you/ you almost
gave it away again. Your body, more
solidly and strongly made than the
metal servitor, kept my beef and
bones from being de-atomized. And
you didn't pass out on me, but calmly
changed clothes."

"Not vanity on my part," Buckalew
assured him. "Without clothes I'm
pretty evidently an artificial figure.
And so I had to think of dressing be-
fore I dared awaken you. I dare say

continued. "You didn't fear a shot
from Gerda's pistol. You had no
sense of dizziness when you climbed
down those girders after me; and
your body, smaller than mine, was yet
heavy enough to pull mine up by the
counter-balance of its weight. And
— well, won't you tell us the whole
story now?"

"Very briefly," Buckalew toyed
with the wine glass from which he
never drank. "I was made, Dillon, by
your grandfather when he was a
young man like yourself, studying
here. Malbrook's grandfather had en-
gaged him to experiment in robot en-
gineering, and I was the finest ex-
ample of his work. At first your

NEXT ISSUE'S HALL OF FAME STORY

HORNETS OF

SPACE

An Interplanetary Police Story
of Heroic Sacrifice

By R. F. STARZL

A CLASSIC OF SCIENTIFICTION1

I acted very strangely, Dillon, but I

was really telling the truth."

"The truth?"

"Fielding magnetized the walls to
hold both me and the servitor helpless
until you came. Also to hold the in-
flated copy figure of me up, too, so
that when it was released and sagged
down the trigger device would set off
the explosion. I actually went blank
in my mind — it has metal connections,
you see. They were frozen inactive
until the magnetizing power was
turned off. If 1 was rude or vague,

I'm sorry."
"There were more clues," Stover

grandfather was dissatisfied with the
sub-mental, sub-personal servitors he
evolved — but when he made me, he
was heartsick."

"Why?" asked Bee with breathless

interest.

Buckalew smiled faintly. "I was a
mind, a personality. To him, I was a
friend, and a dear friend. But be-
cause I was an artificial construction
I was property, the property of the
man who engaged him " Buckalew
was somber. "He stopped making su-
per robots at once, but I was already
here. I descended at last to the Mai-
brook whose death has caused all

^—

STARTLING STORIES

you

these curious disclosures,"

"So that was his hold over
summed up Bee*

Buckalew smiled bitterly.
"Yes. He could expose me at any
time as an artificial form of life. He
could, if he wished, have dismantled
and destroyed me. He let me live as
if^ I were a free man, well-supplied
with money — but only to run various
unpleasant errands for him/* Bucka-
lew grew somber, but only for a mo-
ment, "I'm free of him now. Nobody
knows my real status except the two
of you and the heir to Malbrook's
property."

"Reynardine P h o g o r ," finished
Stover. "Yes, she knows about you."

"What a rotten shame!" put in Bee
MacGowan warmly. "She may prove
a worse owner than Malbrook."

"I can only find out," sighed Bucka-
lew,

Stover smiled as he signaled a robot
waiter, who replenished his glass and
Bee's. Then he said: "What were
some of your jobs, Robert?'*

"The principal one was being Mal-
brook's financial figurehead. In my
name he could speculate. His own
operations would have caused too
much publicity and set financial op-
ponents on guard against him. With
me as a front, he could operate safely.
Even if I wanted to cheat or oppose
him, I couldn't. He could declare my
true status at any time, destroy me,
and take my technical holdings.
Fielding used me that way, too.'*

"Could you operate as a financier
and business man yourself?" inquired
Stover.

Buckalew's artificial eyebrows went
up, "Yes. I'm well experienced and
adapted. But I'll never get the chance,
belonging to Miss Phogor."

"She and I had a conversation while
we waited to be interviewed in Con-
greve's office," said Stover. "First of
all, she thought that she owed me
everything. Without me, the true be-
quest to her of the bulk of Malbrook's
property would never have been
learned. And I agreed very frankly.
I asked certain favors."

"About the water rights?*'

"Yes, about the water rights,"
agreed Stover. "They are going to be

administered for the good of the
whole Martian population — a govern-
ment project and relief activity, not
a money-grubbing monopoly. They'll
tide Mars over while the condenser-
ray work is being perfected. She
agreed that I was right— such things
should be. And then I made another
stipulation. I asked her for some-
thing outright as a reward for my
services."

"Reward?" asked Buckalew.

"What?"

"You," said Stover succinctly.

For once Buckalew's artificial face
betrayed something like mute, human
astonishment.

"She made a formal written transfer
of her title to you over to me," said
Stover. "Technically, you're now my
property. That will protect you from
any legal trouble as a piece of machi-
nery. But, practically, you belong to
yourself."

"To myself/' muttered Buckalew.
"To myself," He picked up the wine-
glass. "For the first time since I was
made, I wish I could take a drink."

"Come to Earth with me," Stover
was urging. "There you'll never be
spotted as anything but a man. And
you know that Bee and I will never
tell on you."

ROBERT BUCKALEW looked
at him with startled eyes.
"You think I could run my life my
own way?"

"Why not? I'll gamble on you. In
all of Puiarabar, in all of the Solar
System, in all of the habitable uni-
verse, I could never ask for an animate
friend with a braver, warmer, truer
heart than you. And here's to your
robot health."

Stover and Bee lifted glasses and
drank. Buckalew gravely bowed his
sleek head,

"Consider a return toast drunk," he
said in a voice that for once trembled
with the emotion that robots are said
never to feel. "We're all safe, all
happy, all triumphant. We don't have
to fight or hate anyone. Not even
Brome Fielding.'*

"No," agreed Stover. "We can see
now that Fielding was beaten from
the start."

DEVIL'S PLANET

Both Bee and Buckalew turned
sharp gazes upon him,

"How so?" asked Bee, "With Mal-
brook dead, he was so powerful/*

"Exactly," agreed Stover. "It hap-
pens that I was sure of his guilt only
when I heard that he had possession
of that transcribed will. It had been
lost. I knew it had been tampered
with. So Fielding must have hidden
and changed it. The rest of the pic-
ture filled itself in. But his position
of power was really his downfall. It
became more and more evident that a
man of supreme power was guilty."

"You started that train of thought
when you first said that only one of
the High-tower set could have done
it," remembered Buckalew.

"Yes, Police secrets, scientific
knowledge, a dozen other difficult
things, were wielded as weapons by
the killer. Even without the evidence
that turned up, we could have can-

celed one suspect after another be-
cause of their weaknesses, until we
came to the first citizen of Pularnbar
-Brome Fielding."

Buckalew nodded gravely. "A ra-
tionalization worthy of your grand-
father, Dillon. You 1 11 start back to
work now?"

"Almost at once. I'm going to fin-
ish that condenser apparatus, and
make Mars fertile again. The Mal-
brook-Fielding fortune, founded on
water monopoly, won't long survive
its owners. But," and Stover waved
the topic away, "we're celebrating
now, aren't we?"

"We are," said Buckalew. "What
then? Shall I order a joy-lamp for
you two susceptibles?"

Stover turned and looked very
fondly at Bee.

"Your eyes are joy-lamp enough/ 1
he told her gently, "for me for the
rest of my life."

Next Issue: TARNISHED UTOPIA, an Amazing
Full-Length Novel of the Future by MALCOLM JAMESON

You rate high, mister, in her book

If you've a smooth and well-groomed look!
With thrifty Thin Gillettes it's easy

To get shaves that are clean and breezy!

y^*

Ou trait Ordinary llacfti
fro To On*

--T a

Produc*d By Tbe

UfccrOfThcFara

CHbtt* Blun Biadt

8 io 19

Save Extra Money! Get The Big New Economy Package, 12 For 27c

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Devil's Planet"

See other formats