Donald A. Wollheim (ed) (12 page)

"Warren's gone for help," she murmured. "Hold out a little
and he'll be back."

As the
Greys
dragged Virginia to her feet again Yvonne screamed wildly: "Why do you
leave her alone? Why do you only torture me? I can't take any more. She can
take it. She's strong. Please leave me alone. Please . . .
aahhhhl
"

She shrieked again as a Grey bent over her
with a knife. She wasn't screaming now for nothing . . .

It was almost an hour later that they brought
Warren in. It had seemed like days to Virginia and probably untold centuries
to Yvonne. When she saw him being forced into the clearing by a mass of
struggling
Greys
, Virginia stared in horror. She had
always believed he would get through. The question had merely been whether he
would be in time. He wouldn't look at her. He stared impassively at Yvonne instead.

They hadn't touched Virginia yet, beyond
holding her still —but it must be close to her time. If they weren't going to
let Yvonne die, they couldn't do much more to her. There was very little blood.
The
Greys
had
a
herb that
seemed to close the skin, though it left an angry purple discoloration. Yvonne
was almost all purple. For some time she had had no strength to scream. The
Greys
were losing interest in her. Further torture had no
noticeable effect. She was conscious, but she didn't seem to feel fresh cuts.

They must have had some invisible means of
communication among themselves. Suddenly, as if as a signal, they turned to
Virginia, and with a sick feeling at her stomach she knew her time had come.

"I always wondered,"
said
Warren curiously, "what kind of figure you
had."

But, not being human, the
Greys
didn't strip
her. They merely stretched her on the ground and cut her bonds, waiting for
her to make a dash for it. That was part of the fun.

Suddenly Warren tore himself free. But
instead of running from the clearing he threw himself at Virginia. "Play
up," he panted. "They won't know what to do. They'll wait to see what
happens. It will amuse them to see us fighting."

"Then you
did
get through?"

"Sure I got through. I said I would,
didn't I? But we have to give them something to think about.
So
that they won't sense the men closing in.
Fight, damn you. We're not out
of the wood yet. If we give them time to think . . ."

His breath left him in a gasp as Virginia's
hard fist sank into his stomach.

While the
Greys
watched they fought for their lives. But not against each other, though that
was part of it. They didn't care if they were hurt. If the fight was too tame
to excite the
Greys
they would be hurt much more. It
means nothing to the
Greys
that they were a man and a
woman. The
Greys
were
monogeneous
and had never quite worked out the relationship of human men and women.

Virginia's hood was torn, and she wondered if
the
Greys
would stop the fight. From then on she was
breathing poison. But it didn't matter. She would either be safe in six hours
or as near dead as made no difference. She tore off the hood altogether and
threw it from her, jerking her hair back out of her eyes.

Warren was grunting with pain more than her
blows deserved. It did occur to Virginia once as he struck at her with feral
strength that perhaps he was hurting her more than he need; but then she
realized that as the
Greys
sensed fear they probably
sensed
pain,
and that that was at the root of their
inhuman sadism. After that she didn't pull her punches either.

Then Warren, his fist drawn back to jab in
her ribs, swung at the nearest Grey instead, knocked him spinning. The clearing
was suddenly filled with men in tough plastic suits. They didn't use guns, but
long knives. It was massacre, for the
Greys'
knives
couldn't pierce their suits.

It was massacre, and Virginia gladly helped
in it. The moist black ground ran with blood, and none of it was red. The
Greys
didn't run. Inflamed with bloodlust, they couldn't
suddenly switch over to reason and to fear. They stood their ground and were
cut to pieces.

"Well,
now you know the
Greys
," said Warren.

They were in a room, a civilized room in a
city again. There were deep carpets on the floor and soft couches and
armchairs. Virginia had thrown herself in one of them, still in her black suit.
Her jacket was little more than a collar, there wasn't much left of her slacks,
and Warren was surveying her at last with satisfied curiosity and smug
satisfaction, but she didn't care.

"Glamour's husband was in
Cefor
," Warren murmured. "He came with the rescue
party, poor devil. She's still a fool, but . . ."

"I know. Is she dead?"

"Not
yet. I told her she'd saved the rest of us, which was a lie and not much good
to her and her husband anyway, but maybe it was some comfort."

"It
wasn't a lie really. She gave you an hour." Virginia shuddered.
"Even though if it hadn't been for her we wouldn't have needed
it.
Why did you let them catch you?"

"To
give the others time.
And maybe to see how tough you
were."
He felt his ribs tenderly. "But this hero business has
got to stop. The next time something like this happens,

I
really will let someone else take the risk. All of it, not just some."

He grinned down at her, swaying a little on
his feet.

"You first spoke to me
about nine hours ago. And you spent a lot of that time hating me. Do you think
we've known each other long enough for you to kiss me?"

"Nothing would make me get up."

"Nothing?
You want another fight?"

She rose hurriedly. "Anything," she
said, "but that."

THE
LUCK
OF
IGNATZ

by
L
esteh
del
R
ey

M
aybe
it was
supehstition
, but
Ignatz
knew
it was
all his
fault. For the last three days, Jerry
Lord had sat in that same chair, his eyes conjuring up a vision of red hair and
a dimple on the wall, and there was nothing
Ignatz
could do about it.

He grunted and grumbled his unhappiness, dug his tail into the carpet,
and shoved forward on his belly plate until his antennae touched the Master's
ankle. For the hundredth time he tried to mumble human words, and failed. But
Jerry sensed his meaning and reached down absently to rub the
hom
on his snout.

"
Ignatz
," the Master muttered,
"did I tell you Anne star-hops on the
Burgundy
tonight?
Bound for South
Venus."
He sucked on his cold pipe,
then
tossed it aside in disgust. "Pete
DumaU's
to
guide her through
Hellonflre
swamps."

It was no news to
Ignatz
, who'd heard nothing
else for the last three days, but he rumbled sympathetically in his foghorn
voice. In the rotten
infemo
north of Hellas, any man
who knew the swamps could be a hero to a
mudsucker
.
Even veteran spacemen were usually
mudsuckers
on
Venus, and Anne was earthbound, up to now.

Ignatz
knew those swamps—none better. He'd lived
there some hundred odd years until the Master caught him for a mascot. Oh, the
swamp animals were harmless enough, most of them, but Anne wouldn't think so
when she saw them. She'd screamed the first time she saw him—even a
Venusian
zloaht
,
or snail-lizard, was horrible to an Earthman; the other fauna were worse.

But the memory of the swamps suggested heat to
Ignatz
.

He
crawled up the portable stove and plunked down into a pan of boiling water;
after a few minutes, when the warmth took full effect, he relaxed comfortably
on the bottom to sleep.
Jerry'd
have to solve his own
problems, since he couldn't learn
zloaht
language. What was the sense of solving problems if he couldn't boast
about it?

There
was
a
thud and clank outside, and a chorus of shrieks rent the air. By the
time
Ignatz
was fully awake, a man was pounding on
the door, grumbling loudly. Jerry threw it open, and the hotel manager plunked
in, face red and temper worse.

"Know
what that was?" he shrieked. "Number two elevator broke the
cable—brand-new it was, too. Stuck between floors, and we've got to cut through
with
a
blow torch.
Nowl
"

"So what?
I didn't do it." The old weariness in Jerry's voice was all too
familiar to
Ignatz
. He knew what was coming.

"No,
you didn't do it; you didn't
do
it.
But you were here." The red face turned livid, and the fat chest heaved
convulsively. He threshed his fist in front of Jerry's face, and shrilled out
in
a
quivering falsetto: "Don't think I haven't heard of
youl
I felt sorry for you, took you in for only double
rates, and
look
what happens. Well, I'm through. Out
you go—hear me? Out, now, at once."

Jerry shrugged. "Okay." He watched
with detached interest as
Ignatz
climbed out of the
pan and dropped over onto the manager's leg. With
a
wild shriek of confused profanity, the man jerked free and out. He went
scurrying down the hall, his fat hands rubbing at the burned flesh.

"You
shouldn't have done that,
Ignatz
," Jerry
remarked mildly. "He'll probably have blisters where you touched him. But
it's done now, so go cool off and help me pack." He put a pan of cold
water on
tne
floor and began opening closets and
dragging out clothes.
Ignatz
climbed into the water
and let his temperature drop down to
a
safe
limit, considering this latest incident ruefully.

Not that there was anything novel about it; the
only wonder was that they had been in the hotel almost a week before it
happened. And it was
all his
fault; he never did
anything, but he was there, and trouble followed blissfully after. Of course,
Jerry Lord should have known better than to catch
a
snail-lizard, but he did it, and things
started.

The luckiest man in the star fleet, the Master had been head tester for
the new rocket models until the O.M. decided he needed a rest and sent him to
Venus. Any normal man would have been killed when the ship cracked up over the
swamps, but Jerry came walking into Hellas with two hundred ounces of gold
under one arm and
Ignatz
under the other.

Naturally, the Venusians had warned him. They
knew, and had known for generations, that it was good luck to have
a
zloaht
around in the swamps, but horribly bad outside. The members of
Ignatz's
tribe were plain Jonahs, back to the beginning.
Ignatz
knew it, too, and tried to get away; but by the time
they were well out of the swamps, he liked the Master too well to leave.

To any other man,
Ignatz
would have spelled personal bad luck, with general misfortune left over. But
Jerry's personal luck held out; instead of getting trouble himself, others
around him were swamped with it. The test ships cracked up, one after another,
while Jerry got away without
a
scratch. Too many cracked up, and the O.M. gave Jerry another vacation,
this time
a
permanent
one.

His reputation waxed great, and doors closed
silently but firmly before him. "Sorry, Mr. Lord, we're not taking on new
men this year." They weren't to be blamed; hadn't something gone wrong by
the time he left the office—not just something, but everything? Nowadays, an
ambulance followed casually wherever he went walking with
Ignatz
,
and some innocent bystander usually needed it.

Then
Jerry met Anne Barclay, and the inevitable happened. Anne was the O.M.'s
daughter, and as cute a yard engine as ever strode down the training field of
the Six World Spaceport. Jerry took one look at her, said, "Ah," and
developed a fever. He still had some of his money left, and he could dance,
even if the orchestra always missed their cues when he was on the floor. By the
time he'd known her three weeks, she was willing to say yes; that is, she was
until the O.M. put her wise. Then she remembered that she'd lost the ring her
mother had given her, had tooth trouble, sinus trouble, and a boil on her left
shoulder, all since she met Jerry. With the O.M. helping her imagination along,
she did a little thinking about what married life might lead to; they decided
that
a
little trip to Venus, with Peter
Durnall
, the
Old Man's favorite, was just the answer, and that Jerry could cool his heels
and rot.

Not
that they were superstitious, any more than all star-jumpers and their
daughters were;
Ignatz
understood that. But when too
many coincidences happen, it begins to look a bit shady. Now she was gone, or
at least going, and Jerry was going out on his ear, from her life and from the
hotel.
Ignatz
swore lustily in lizard language and
crawled out of the pan. He rolled over in
a
towel,
then
began helping Jerry pack—a simple
thing, since most of Jerry's wardrobe rested comfortably in old Ike's
pawnshop.

"We'll go to the dock," Jerry
decided. "I'm practically broke, fellow, so we'll sleep in a shed or an
outbuilding if we can slip past the watch. Tomorrow, I'll look for work
again."

He'd been looking for work for months, any
work, but the only job he knew was handling the star-jumpers, or spaceships;
and they had enough natural bad luck without adding Luckless Jerry to the crew.
Ignatz
wondered what the chances of finding open
garbage pails around the dock were, but he followed meekly enough.

A raw steam pipe led around the shed with the
loose lock at the rear. It happened to be super-hot steam, so
Ignatz's
sleep was heavy and dreamless, and daylight came
and went unknown. The first thing he knew was when Jerry knocked him down and
dipped him in a cold puddle to wake him up. At least, it smelled like Jerry,
though the face and clothes were all wrong.

The Master grinned down at
Ignatz
as the water fizzed and boiled. Overnight,
apparently, he had grown
a
beard,
and his straight hair was a mass of ringlets. Over one eye
a
scar ran down to his mouth, and pulled his
lips up into
a
rough
caricature of a smile; and the face was rough and brown, while his clothes
might have been pulled off
a
refuse
truck.

"Pretty slick, eh,
Ignatz
?"
he asked. "Old Ike fixed me up for my watch and ring." He picked the
zloaht
up and chucked him into a traveling bag. "We can't let them see you
now, so you'll have to stay under cover till we hit berth."

Ignatz
hooted questioningly, and Jerry chuckled.
"Sure, we've got a job—keeping the bearings oiled on a space-hopper.
Remember that old tramp
who
was sleeping here last
night? Well, he'd been a star-jumper till the weed hit him, and his papers were
still clear. I got them for practically nothing, had Ike fix me up, and went
calling today. Our luck's changed again. We're riding out tonight, bound for
Venus!"

Ignatz
grunted again. He might have known where
they were bound for.

"Sure." Jerry was cocky again,
banking on his luck. "Not another grunt from you, fellow. I can't take any
chances on this trip."

The
zloaht
settled down on the clothes in the big and chewed slowly on a piece of
leather he'd found outside. Anything might happen now, but he had ideas of what
that anything might be. The bag jerked and twisted as the Master slipped past
the guards and out onto the rocket field where the hiss of rockets told
Ignatz
some ship was warming up, testing her exhaust. He
stuck his eye to a crack in the bag and peered out.

It was an old freighter, but large and
evidendy
well-kept. They were moving the derricks back and
battening down the hatches, so the cargo was all aboard. From the smell, he
decided they were carrying raisins, peanuts and chocolate, all highly prized by
the spore prospectors on Venus. Venus grew little that equaled old Earth foods,
and only the most concentrated rations could be carried by those wandering
adventurers.

As he watched,
Ignatz
saw a big tanker run out on the tracks and the hose tossed over to fill the
tanks with hydrogen peroxide to be burned into fuming exhaust gases by the
atomic converters; the isotope plates were already in, apparently. Mechanics
were scurrying around, inspecting the long blast
tubes,
and the field was swarming with airscrew tugs ready to pull the big freighter
up where her blast could shoot out harmlessly and her air fins get a grip on
the air.

These big freighters were different from the
sleek craft that carried the passengers; the triangles were always neatly
balanced on their jets, but the freighter was helpless in the grip of a planet
unless buoyed up by the tugs until she reached a speed where the stubby fins supported
her.

Evidently the Master had made it barely in time, for the crew plank was
being unhitched. He ran up it, presented his papers, and was ordered to his
berth. As he turned to leave, there was a halloo from below, and the plank was
dropped again.
Blane
, the freighter's captain, leaned
over, swearing.

"Supercargo I
Why
can't he take a liner? All right, we'll wait for him twenty minutes." He
stumped up the stairs to the conning turret, and words drifted down
sulfurously
. "Every damned thing has gone wrong on
this trip. I'm beginning to think there's a Jonah in the crew."

Jerry waited to hear no more, but moved to
his berth—
a
little
tin hole in the wall, with
a
hard
bunk, a pan of water, and a rod for his clothes. He tested the oxygen helmet
carefully, nodded his satisfaction, and stretched out on the bunk.

"You stay there,
Ignatz
,"
he ordered, "and keep quiet. There might be an inspection. I'll let you
out when I go on second shift. Anyway, there isn't a
steampipe
in the hole, so it wouldn't do you any good."

The port above was closing
with a heavy bang. "Supercargo must have come up early. Wonder who he
was? Must have been somebody important to hold Plane waiting for him—friend of
the O.M.'s, I guess." He grinned comfortably,
then
wiped it off his face as a shout came down the stairwell.

"Hey, down there! Bring up some tools, and make it snappy. The crew
port's
stuck, and we're taking off in five
minutes."

Jerry swore, and
Ignatz
turned over with a disgruntled snort. "Well," the Master reflected,
"at least I won't get the blame for it this time. But it's funny, all the
same.
Darned funny!"

Ignatz
agreed. This promised to be an interesting
voyage, if they ever reached Venus at all. If the Master had to keep a
zloaht
for a pet, he might have stayed on the ground where their necks would
have been safe, instead of running off on this crazy chase after a girl. For
once he was glad that Venus knew no sex—unless the incubator cows were called
females.