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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5d2bdee --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64141 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64141) diff --git a/old/64141-0.txt b/old/64141-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 58fa668..0000000 --- a/old/64141-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,783 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Slay-Ride, by Winston K. Marks - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Slay-Ride - -Author: Winston K. Marks - -Release Date: December 27, 2020 [eBook #64141] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLAY-RIDE *** - - - - - SLAY-RIDE - - By WINSTON K. MARKS - - _Who ever thought that Frane Lewis--wholesale - triggerman, spaceways pirate--would be the - sweating victim of a simple, webbed, nylon - garment known as spaceman's underwear?_ - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Planet Stories November 1953. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - -Frane Lewis enjoyed another sadistic shiver as he moved up the narrow -passageway to the captain's control room. To his flared nostrils the -warm, moist air of the small space-freighter was still heavy with the -smell of death. A psychiatrist could have told him that this was a -neural confusion of olfactory sensation with the perverted emotional -excitement of murder. But no physicians ever attended Frane's murders, -except at inquests. - -Three crewmen, still warm, lay at their posts with bloody splotches -staining their tunic pockets. Two more chores aboard and his pay, -fabulous pay, was earned. - -For Frane simple plans worked best. He rapped on the gray magnesium -panel. "Your lunch, sir," he called. Inside, a solenoid thumped. The -port slid aside revealing the captain's square back outlined against -the white-sprinkled velvet of space. As the executive turned away from -the transparent nose dome Frane's weapon spoke its final invitation to -eternity. The captain's eyes clamped shut, and in the reduced gravity -he buckled to the deck in slow motion. - -Then Frane swore as the dimly lighted astro-pit revealed another -person. What was the navigator doing up here at this time of watch? The -tall, uniformed second officer reacted even as unbelieving horror swept -his face. - -Shoving off from the bulkhead Frane dodged the officer's lunge with -a quick side-step, but the motion smashed the side of his curly head -into a grip stanchion. His ears rang, and blood spurted from a forehead -gash. In a cold rage he watched his opponent recover and crouch for -another spring. "Sucker! you could have died nice and easy. Now we -shall see!" - -With cruel deliberation he slipped his finger off the trigger and -waited for the spaceman's desperate dive. Up whipped the heavy hand -weapon in a short, vicious arc that splintered jawbone with an almost -crisp, wood-snapping sound. - -Swiftly Frane secured the cabin door. Then he went about binding -the unconscious navigator with parts of his own uniform. When he -was through he stood for a moment trying to orient himself in the -hemispherical room. He compared it to a chart sketch provided him on -earth before he had stowed away in his special supply crate. - -"Piracy!" The word hissed into the silence with a quality of -unbelieving. Frane swung and saw that his victim had regained his -senses. - -"Yeah, piracy. Didn't think it could happen, did you? They told you -space piracy was impossible, didn't they?" - -"You brutal, bestial, insane--" the navigator broke off as his smashed -jaw moved in spite of his gritted teeth. - -"Not insane, buddy, just irritated. You caused me some trouble, see? -I'm saving you, buddy." His hand came away from his face palm out and -smeared with red. "I'm saving you for later." - - * * * * * - -He moved surely now, the details of location well in mind. A low placed -locker when opened spilled out the gleaming metalized space suit which -was prop number one in this stage play. A little nervously Frane -fumbled with the unfamiliar garment. - -The officer watched with dull eyes as the killer prepared to don it. -"How--how many--men alive back there?" - -"Subtract three. That leaves eighteen, doesn't it? And you can write -them off as soon as I get these pajamas on." - -"Don't spill the air! For the love of Jupiter, don't spill the air! You -have the ship. Why murder us all?" - -"Orders. I don't make them, I just carry them out. For money. Big -money. That's why I'm here. I'm reliable. Besides, your men might break -out and pester me. They're locked in their quarters." - -"You mean you're alone?" - -"I'm your man, space boy," Frane said with flat boastfulness. He caught -up a strange webbed garment of nylon yarn. "What do you call this fish -net? It was in the suit locker." - -"You wouldn't know about that, you earthbound slug. We call it -spaceman's underwear. Didn't your buddies tell you about it?" - -Frane shrugged, started to discard it and changed his mind. "Better put -it on me, I guess. I suppose it's pretty cold when the air goes out." - -Through twisted, motionless lips, the navigator told him, "Very cold. -Absolute cold. You won't live if you spill the air." Frane said -nothing. The spaceman watched the killer strip off his clothes, slip -into the net garment and redress himself. Wool slacks snugged in at the -ankles and belted tightly to a felt jacket with a tight, soft collar. -Now he proceeded with the space suit. - -"With enough air a man can live for weeks in one of these," Frane -lectured to dispel a depressed feeling of confinement, as he tugged -the bulky space garment up and fastened it around his neck. "And I got -plenty of air, see?" He uncoiled the length of silicon-plastic hose and -plugged one end into the bubble helmet, the other into the wall valve -of the control cabin. - -"How do you intend to navigate this craft?" the officer asked with -honest curiosity. - -After a moment's reflection Frane could see no reason to conceal the -procedure. He felt like talking. He had often talked to his victims -before. Foolishly, perhaps, but his victims had never lived to repeat -the conversations. Nor would this one. - -"We'll be boarded in about twenty hours. They told me they couldn't -trail too closely or your radar would have alerted you. They'll have -their own crew to take over." - -"Suppose they don't show up at all?" the officer needled. - -"They will. Don't you worry your silly little head over that." - -"But if they don't?" the prostrate man insisted. "You know, when you -blow the main valves you can't close them again from the inside. You -may have plenty of air for that suit, but how will you eat? Breathing -is just one problem in a space suit." - -"They'll be here inside of twenty hours, I told you." - -"And you'll be dead." - -"Why?" - -"Because they double-crossed you good. Sure, they'll get the fattest -cargo this can ever carried. But your share of it will be a shove -outside. You'll be just as damned dead as I'll be." - -"How did they cross me up?" - -A ghost of a smile distorted the swollen face that had once been lean -and handsome. "Find out," he said simply. - -In spite of himself Frane checked back on his procedure. Purposely or -otherwise, could they have left out some essential step in order to -reduce the number of splits on the cargo? He ticked off the steps of -his project and could find no reasonable omission. Carefully he fitted -on the bubble, opened the oxygen valve and made the meter read what -they had told him. - -The hiss told him he was getting gas, but surprisingly, there was no -perceptible motion of air in the helmet. Clever inlet baffles prevented -the chilly drafts that had plagued pioneer spacemen with head colds and -sneezes. - -He was sweating already, but, he reflected, it wouldn't do any harm to -store up a little body heat against the hours of this absolute zero -they talked about. - - * * * * * - -He checked the chronometer which he'd strapped to the wrist of his -suit. "Right on time," he shouted in order to be heard through the -plastic bubble. His bulky hand paused clumsily on the master air outlet -valve switch. He raised his other arm in a derisive farewell gesture. - -"Quick-frozen space punks!" he shouted. "Get them cheap from Frane -Lewis, wholesale triggerman." He laughed hoarsely as he jabbed the -switch. - -The sound of air rushing from vents never intended to be opened in -space, screeched a shrill requiem even through the thick curved helmet. -As the sound grew fainter his suit bulged out and threw him off -balance. He toppled over and landed face down on the dying navigator. -For one grisly second the swollen, contorted face with bulging eyes -glared at him, then he rolled away in a convulsed panic that ripped his -air hose from its connection. - -The hiss stopped, and almost instantly his rapid respiration fouled -the air of his tiny headspace. Frantic, mitted hands fought the slender -hose back over the nipple, struggled with the safety clamp, and once -again the sweet air dribbled into his lungs. - -He realized now there must have been an automatic valve in the air -inlet, which had held his pressure until the connection was remade, -with a trace of new respect for the breed of spacemen, he wondered -about the poor fools who had suffered and died to provide the -improvements of this self-contained bit of earth environment. He -was now the only living speck of life on the desolated craft he had -betrayed to the frigid airlessness of space. - -Frigid? The exertion had sweat running down his face so freely that -his snug neckband was soaked already. His hand came up and rapped the -bubble in an unconscious, futile motion intended to rub out the salty -sweat from his stinging eyes and tortured head wound. - -Strange. The cold was not penetrating at all. Even at the several -points where his body and limbs made contact with the distended space -suit, no sensation of coolness struck through. His feet were moist and -hot on the heavy cork soles. - -He stared briefly at the two bodies near his feet. They were beyond -explaining anything. The smell of death came back to his nostrils. -Right through his helmet? There was no smell out there. The smell was -in here. With him. Power of suggestion? The navigator had said he would -die. Sure. A safe statement. Nobody lived forever. But he'd live long -enough to enjoy his cut of this little deal. - -His cut. The officer had said it would be a shove out into space. The -death smell. His own death, perhaps. He laughed softly, and the sound -of his voice thudded back to his ears like the intimate murmurings of a -stethoscope. It was intimate in here. Every little whisper of breath he -took rustled loudly. - -Deliberately he cleared his throat and coughed. The sound was almost -metallic. It hurt his ears. Mingled with the tepid moisture of his own -breath was the faint odor of the powerful dessicant that ringed the -base of the helmet. - -His eyes dropped to the row of tiny dials set just within eye-range -under his chin. Suit pressure, O. K. Oxygen, O. K. Humidity--the needle -lay right on the red line. Well, when he stopped sweating from his -scare that should drop off. Body temperature, one hundred one. - -One-oh-one? Ninety-eight plus, he remembered from upper school hygiene, -was normal. Over a hundred was not so good. - -Sit down, Frane. Relax. Get your breathing slowed down. Cool off. - -He took the captain's comfortable chair before the low control panel. -He stared out into the incredible blackness of space, out where not the -tiniest diffusion from the starlight eased the utter darkness between -constellations. - -Somewhere in the ship's electric generation system a moving part, -brittle with the cold and contracted within its bearing, vibrated -briefly and shattered. The control-room twilight flared and died out -into a shadowless night. - -Frane had the sensation of being projected out among the stars. -Loneliness pushed in on him. He realized cynically that even the two -corpses had been better than this isolation. - - * * * * * - -After a moment his pupils expanded so widely that the stars seemed to -grow larger, rushing in to meet the plunging space ship. The luminous -needles and dial faces of his helmet instruments became glaring little -lanterns. - -Everything normal except humidity, slightly over the red line, and -temperature. Temperature: 102.5 F., he read. He wished fervently that -he hadn't put on that last garment. Spaceman's underwear, it was -called. Or maybe it would have been better to-- - -An uneasy thought crept into the back of his head, and he strained his -smarting eyes down at the temperature gauge. In only a minute or two it -had advanced one tenth degree to 102.6 F. - -Now his breath rasped more rapidly as he gasped more oxygen. Pressure -was down slightly. He moved to the valve and adjusted it. On an impulse -he opened it wide for a second. The pressure needle pegged, his ears -popped, but no coolness came from the baffled intake. He normalized -the pressure again. - -The hose must be double-walled, he thought. The air should at least -have had the coolness of its own expansion. He wiggled inside his -sweat-sopping clothes. Why didn't the perspiration dry off and cool -him? The answer came with uncomfortable clarity. Where could the body -moisture go? Where, for that matter, could the body heat go? - -Temperature: 102.9 F. - -Frane Lewis was no coward, but his hands began plucking nervously at -the space suit. The previously tough, folds of shiny, impermeable -fabric were now distended into a rock-like rigidity. - -He stood up suddenly, and his feet squished in his sandals. The sweat -was a puddle up over his toes. He was getting weak and thirsty. Very -thirsty. He felt he must have no more water in him. He stood in a -trancelike state for minutes staring blindly into the heavens. His mind -wouldn't work right. He hurt. He itched. He craved water, gallons of it. - -Then he stopped sweating. He had been deliberately keeping his eyes off -the temperature dial, forcing his mind away from a problem he didn't -understand, when he felt his face go dry. The caked streaks of salt -made his skin feel stiff and itchy. - -Temperature: 104.3 F. - -Frane now knew he was sick. At that rate of increase he couldn't last -much longer. His head was buzzing, and the fantasies of fever were -flashing lights across his bleared vision. He strove to fight off the -hallucinations. He focussed his eyes on the dim-faced chronometer and -realized with a start that he had endured over three hours of his -vigil. Perhaps he could last out. Whatever the fever was, it must ease -off sometime. - -He staggered to the oxygen control, eased it open to full again and -watched the temperature needle for minutes. He became dazed. Then his -eyes came alive again, and he stared. Temperature: 104.5 F. - -His hands drifted listlessly to the control again. This time he -throttled it down, down, below normal pressure. Slowly, slower than the -minute hand of a watch, the needle climbed on. Why? _Why?_ - -His swollen tongue licked at dry lips. He couldn't swallow any more. -Around his neck a salty puddle burned a ring of itching hell fire. - -He choked down more on the air valve. It didn't make sense to him, but -if more oxygen raised his temperature faster, then less should do the -opposite. At 104.5 F a man doesn't always think straight. - - * * * * * - -At first his heart pounded loudly in protest. His breathing became -quick and shallow. With staring, grateful eyes he watched the needle -settle a tenth of a degree and stay there. The mental relief was almost -overwhelming. Had there been moisture left in his tear ducts Frane -would have cried. But now, with the strained concentration gone he -became fuzzy. He slipped in and out of consciousness, and dead faces -began drifting past his eyes. - -This wouldn't do. He had one more job left. He looked at his -chronometer. In another eight minutes he must throw the drive lever -and kill all acceleration. The pirate ship's orbital prediction was -based on this timed interruption of the freighter's drive. So much as -two minutes off, he had been impressed, would make their search hours -longer, since they were approaching from the rear at an angle. - -He sagged into the pilot's chair again, but sitting down was no good. -Instantly the ghost faces began their parade, and the death smell, -mingled with the saturated dessicant's rank stink threatened to -strangle him. The belly full of rations he had force-fed himself to -sustain him the twenty hours of waiting pressed heavily against his -heaving diaphragm. - -He gained his feet, stood with his hand on the fuel lever control and -stared fixedly at his chronometer. Two minutes. - -The navigator's swollen face, eyes bulging, stared into his helmet. - -"Get out of my way. Got to see my watch. Get--" - -He brushed at the phantom as if it were a cloud of gnats. He was -confident now. The temperature gauge showed his body heat to be -constant at 104.4 F. Thirty seconds now and he could give himself over -to his fever dreams. Twenty seconds. - -The broken jawed image persisted mistily. But now the face was -repaired. It was the young tense face before he had crushed it with his -blaster. It had that hard, determined look on it. - -The fire in his body swept up into his brain. The bodyless image spoke -softly, "You're going to die. You are going to move the fuel control -the wrong way. You can't remember which way they said to move it. It -isn't marked. You can't remember." - -"Yes, I can!" The chronometer said twelve seconds. - -"You made one mistake. You put on your clothes over the spaceman's -underwear. Your body heat can't escape. Your brain is burning up. You -can't remember about the lever. You will move it the wrong way." - -"So what? Then I'll move it the other way," Frane screamed. - -The tiny clock zeroed. Frane pressed the lever away from him. That was -the way to stop any earth vehicle--pressure forward on the air brake -pedal. He shoved hard. - -The rockets roared out full blast far behind him. The building -acceleration caught him and flung him stumbling back against the -bulkhead. Then the firing took on complete departure blast rate. - -Pinned like a butterfly specimen, eight G's smashed Frane Lewis' space -suit against the metal wall. Lewis, being free inside the suit, was -pressed hard against the interior of its back side. - -The cold he had been seeking struck through the wet, felt lining and -his exterior clothes. The thickly corded spaceman's underwear delayed -the frost momentarily, but then the sweat froze. The death smell seized -his throat. Dimly he knew what was happening, but he felt only heat. -The sear of an atomic furnace burning his shoulders, buttocks, leg -calves, through into his spine. - -The heat--the terrible sear of space cold. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLAY-RIDE *** - -***** This file should be named 64141-0.txt or 64141-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/1/4/64141/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Marks</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Slay-Ride</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Winston K. Marks</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 27, 2020 [eBook #64141]</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLAY-RIDE ***</div> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>SLAY-RIDE</h1> - -<h2>By WINSTON K. MARKS</h2> - -<p><i>Who ever thought that Frane Lewis—wholesale<br /> -triggerman, spaceways pirate—would be the<br /> -sweating victim of a simple, webbed, nylon<br /> -garment known as spaceman's underwear?</i></p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Planet Stories November 1953.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Frane Lewis enjoyed another sadistic shiver as he moved up the narrow -passageway to the captain's control room. To his flared nostrils the -warm, moist air of the small space-freighter was still heavy with the -smell of death. A psychiatrist could have told him that this was a -neural confusion of olfactory sensation with the perverted emotional -excitement of murder. But no physicians ever attended Frane's murders, -except at inquests.</p> - -<p>Three crewmen, still warm, lay at their posts with bloody splotches -staining their tunic pockets. Two more chores aboard and his pay, -fabulous pay, was earned.</p> - -<p>For Frane simple plans worked best. He rapped on the gray magnesium -panel. "Your lunch, sir," he called. Inside, a solenoid thumped. The -port slid aside revealing the captain's square back outlined against -the white-sprinkled velvet of space. As the executive turned away from -the transparent nose dome Frane's weapon spoke its final invitation to -eternity. The captain's eyes clamped shut, and in the reduced gravity -he buckled to the deck in slow motion.</p> - -<p>Then Frane swore as the dimly lighted astro-pit revealed another -person. What was the navigator doing up here at this time of watch? The -tall, uniformed second officer reacted even as unbelieving horror swept -his face.</p> - -<p>Shoving off from the bulkhead Frane dodged the officer's lunge with -a quick side-step, but the motion smashed the side of his curly head -into a grip stanchion. His ears rang, and blood spurted from a forehead -gash. In a cold rage he watched his opponent recover and crouch for -another spring. "Sucker! you could have died nice and easy. Now we -shall see!"</p> - -<p>With cruel deliberation he slipped his finger off the trigger and -waited for the spaceman's desperate dive. Up whipped the heavy hand -weapon in a short, vicious arc that splintered jawbone with an almost -crisp, wood-snapping sound.</p> - -<p>Swiftly Frane secured the cabin door. Then he went about binding -the unconscious navigator with parts of his own uniform. When he -was through he stood for a moment trying to orient himself in the -hemispherical room. He compared it to a chart sketch provided him on -earth before he had stowed away in his special supply crate.</p> - -<p>"Piracy!" The word hissed into the silence with a quality of -unbelieving. Frane swung and saw that his victim had regained his -senses.</p> - -<p>"Yeah, piracy. Didn't think it could happen, did you? They told you -space piracy was impossible, didn't they?"</p> - -<p>"You brutal, bestial, insane—" the navigator broke off as his smashed -jaw moved in spite of his gritted teeth.</p> - -<p>"Not insane, buddy, just irritated. You caused me some trouble, see? -I'm saving you, buddy." His hand came away from his face palm out and -smeared with red. "I'm saving you for later."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He moved surely now, the details of location well in mind. A low placed -locker when opened spilled out the gleaming metalized space suit which -was prop number one in this stage play. A little nervously Frane -fumbled with the unfamiliar garment.</p> - -<p>The officer watched with dull eyes as the killer prepared to don it. -"How—how many—men alive back there?"</p> - -<p>"Subtract three. That leaves eighteen, doesn't it? And you can write -them off as soon as I get these pajamas on."</p> - -<p>"Don't spill the air! For the love of Jupiter, don't spill the air! You -have the ship. Why murder us all?"</p> - -<p>"Orders. I don't make them, I just carry them out. For money. Big -money. That's why I'm here. I'm reliable. Besides, your men might break -out and pester me. They're locked in their quarters."</p> - -<p>"You mean you're alone?"</p> - -<p>"I'm your man, space boy," Frane said with flat boastfulness. He caught -up a strange webbed garment of nylon yarn. "What do you call this fish -net? It was in the suit locker."</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't know about that, you earthbound slug. We call it -spaceman's underwear. Didn't your buddies tell you about it?"</p> - -<p>Frane shrugged, started to discard it and changed his mind. "Better put -it on me, I guess. I suppose it's pretty cold when the air goes out."</p> - -<p>Through twisted, motionless lips, the navigator told him, "Very cold. -Absolute cold. You won't live if you spill the air." Frane said -nothing. The spaceman watched the killer strip off his clothes, slip -into the net garment and redress himself. Wool slacks snugged in at the -ankles and belted tightly to a felt jacket with a tight, soft collar. -Now he proceeded with the space suit.</p> - -<p>"With enough air a man can live for weeks in one of these," Frane -lectured to dispel a depressed feeling of confinement, as he tugged -the bulky space garment up and fastened it around his neck. "And I got -plenty of air, see?" He uncoiled the length of silicon-plastic hose and -plugged one end into the bubble helmet, the other into the wall valve -of the control cabin.</p> - -<p>"How do you intend to navigate this craft?" the officer asked with -honest curiosity.</p> - -<p>After a moment's reflection Frane could see no reason to conceal the -procedure. He felt like talking. He had often talked to his victims -before. Foolishly, perhaps, but his victims had never lived to repeat -the conversations. Nor would this one.</p> - -<p>"We'll be boarded in about twenty hours. They told me they couldn't -trail too closely or your radar would have alerted you. They'll have -their own crew to take over."</p> - -<p>"Suppose they don't show up at all?" the officer needled.</p> - -<p>"They will. Don't you worry your silly little head over that."</p> - -<p>"But if they don't?" the prostrate man insisted. "You know, when you -blow the main valves you can't close them again from the inside. You -may have plenty of air for that suit, but how will you eat? Breathing -is just one problem in a space suit."</p> - -<p>"They'll be here inside of twenty hours, I told you."</p> - -<p>"And you'll be dead."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because they double-crossed you good. Sure, they'll get the fattest -cargo this can ever carried. But your share of it will be a shove -outside. You'll be just as damned dead as I'll be."</p> - -<p>"How did they cross me up?"</p> - -<p>A ghost of a smile distorted the swollen face that had once been lean -and handsome. "Find out," he said simply.</p> - -<p>In spite of himself Frane checked back on his procedure. Purposely or -otherwise, could they have left out some essential step in order to -reduce the number of splits on the cargo? He ticked off the steps of -his project and could find no reasonable omission. Carefully he fitted -on the bubble, opened the oxygen valve and made the meter read what -they had told him.</p> - -<p>The hiss told him he was getting gas, but surprisingly, there was no -perceptible motion of air in the helmet. Clever inlet baffles prevented -the chilly drafts that had plagued pioneer spacemen with head colds and -sneezes.</p> - -<p>He was sweating already, but, he reflected, it wouldn't do any harm to -store up a little body heat against the hours of this absolute zero -they talked about.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He checked the chronometer which he'd strapped to the wrist of his -suit. "Right on time," he shouted in order to be heard through the -plastic bubble. His bulky hand paused clumsily on the master air outlet -valve switch. He raised his other arm in a derisive farewell gesture.</p> - -<p>"Quick-frozen space punks!" he shouted. "Get them cheap from Frane -Lewis, wholesale triggerman." He laughed hoarsely as he jabbed the -switch.</p> - -<p>The sound of air rushing from vents never intended to be opened in -space, screeched a shrill requiem even through the thick curved helmet. -As the sound grew fainter his suit bulged out and threw him off -balance. He toppled over and landed face down on the dying navigator. -For one grisly second the swollen, contorted face with bulging eyes -glared at him, then he rolled away in a convulsed panic that ripped his -air hose from its connection.</p> - -<p>The hiss stopped, and almost instantly his rapid respiration fouled -the air of his tiny headspace. Frantic, mitted hands fought the slender -hose back over the nipple, struggled with the safety clamp, and once -again the sweet air dribbled into his lungs.</p> - -<p>He realized now there must have been an automatic valve in the air -inlet, which had held his pressure until the connection was remade, -with a trace of new respect for the breed of spacemen, he wondered -about the poor fools who had suffered and died to provide the -improvements of this self-contained bit of earth environment. He -was now the only living speck of life on the desolated craft he had -betrayed to the frigid airlessness of space.</p> - -<p>Frigid? The exertion had sweat running down his face so freely that -his snug neckband was soaked already. His hand came up and rapped the -bubble in an unconscious, futile motion intended to rub out the salty -sweat from his stinging eyes and tortured head wound.</p> - -<p>Strange. The cold was not penetrating at all. Even at the several -points where his body and limbs made contact with the distended space -suit, no sensation of coolness struck through. His feet were moist and -hot on the heavy cork soles.</p> - -<p>He stared briefly at the two bodies near his feet. They were beyond -explaining anything. The smell of death came back to his nostrils. -Right through his helmet? There was no smell out there. The smell was -in here. With him. Power of suggestion? The navigator had said he would -die. Sure. A safe statement. Nobody lived forever. But he'd live long -enough to enjoy his cut of this little deal.</p> - -<p>His cut. The officer had said it would be a shove out into space. The -death smell. His own death, perhaps. He laughed softly, and the sound -of his voice thudded back to his ears like the intimate murmurings of a -stethoscope. It was intimate in here. Every little whisper of breath he -took rustled loudly.</p> - -<p>Deliberately he cleared his throat and coughed. The sound was almost -metallic. It hurt his ears. Mingled with the tepid moisture of his own -breath was the faint odor of the powerful dessicant that ringed the -base of the helmet.</p> - -<p>His eyes dropped to the row of tiny dials set just within eye-range -under his chin. Suit pressure, O. K. Oxygen, O. K. Humidity—the needle -lay right on the red line. Well, when he stopped sweating from his -scare that should drop off. Body temperature, one hundred one.</p> - -<p>One-oh-one? Ninety-eight plus, he remembered from upper school hygiene, -was normal. Over a hundred was not so good.</p> - -<p>Sit down, Frane. Relax. Get your breathing slowed down. Cool off.</p> - -<p>He took the captain's comfortable chair before the low control panel. -He stared out into the incredible blackness of space, out where not the -tiniest diffusion from the starlight eased the utter darkness between -constellations.</p> - -<p>Somewhere in the ship's electric generation system a moving part, -brittle with the cold and contracted within its bearing, vibrated -briefly and shattered. The control-room twilight flared and died out -into a shadowless night.</p> - -<p>Frane had the sensation of being projected out among the stars. -Loneliness pushed in on him. He realized cynically that even the two -corpses had been better than this isolation.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>After a moment his pupils expanded so widely that the stars seemed to -grow larger, rushing in to meet the plunging space ship. The luminous -needles and dial faces of his helmet instruments became glaring little -lanterns.</p> - -<p>Everything normal except humidity, slightly over the red line, and -temperature. Temperature: 102.5 F., he read. He wished fervently that -he hadn't put on that last garment. Spaceman's underwear, it was -called. Or maybe it would have been better to—</p> - -<p>An uneasy thought crept into the back of his head, and he strained his -smarting eyes down at the temperature gauge. In only a minute or two it -had advanced one tenth degree to 102.6 F.</p> - -<p>Now his breath rasped more rapidly as he gasped more oxygen. Pressure -was down slightly. He moved to the valve and adjusted it. On an impulse -he opened it wide for a second. The pressure needle pegged, his ears -popped, but no coolness came from the baffled intake. He normalized -the pressure again.</p> - -<p>The hose must be double-walled, he thought. The air should at least -have had the coolness of its own expansion. He wiggled inside his -sweat-sopping clothes. Why didn't the perspiration dry off and cool -him? The answer came with uncomfortable clarity. Where could the body -moisture go? Where, for that matter, could the body heat go?</p> - -<p>Temperature: 102.9 F.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p>Frane Lewis was no coward, but his hands began plucking nervously at -the space suit. The previously tough, folds of shiny, impermeable -fabric were now distended into a rock-like rigidity.</p> - -<p>He stood up suddenly, and his feet squished in his sandals. The sweat -was a puddle up over his toes. He was getting weak and thirsty. Very -thirsty. He felt he must have no more water in him. He stood in a -trancelike state for minutes staring blindly into the heavens. His mind -wouldn't work right. He hurt. He itched. He craved water, gallons of it.</p> - -<p>Then he stopped sweating. He had been deliberately keeping his eyes off -the temperature dial, forcing his mind away from a problem he didn't -understand, when he felt his face go dry. The caked streaks of salt -made his skin feel stiff and itchy.</p> - -<p>Temperature: 104.3 F.</p> - -<p>Frane now knew he was sick. At that rate of increase he couldn't last -much longer. His head was buzzing, and the fantasies of fever were -flashing lights across his bleared vision. He strove to fight off the -hallucinations. He focussed his eyes on the dim-faced chronometer and -realized with a start that he had endured over three hours of his -vigil. Perhaps he could last out. Whatever the fever was, it must ease -off sometime.</p> - -<p>He staggered to the oxygen control, eased it open to full again and -watched the temperature needle for minutes. He became dazed. Then his -eyes came alive again, and he stared. Temperature: 104.5 F.</p> - -<p>His hands drifted listlessly to the control again. This time he -throttled it down, down, below normal pressure. Slowly, slower than the -minute hand of a watch, the needle climbed on. Why? <i>Why?</i></p> - -<p>His swollen tongue licked at dry lips. He couldn't swallow any more. -Around his neck a salty puddle burned a ring of itching hell fire.</p> - -<p>He choked down more on the air valve. It didn't make sense to him, but -if more oxygen raised his temperature faster, then less should do the -opposite. At 104.5 F a man doesn't always think straight.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>At first his heart pounded loudly in protest. His breathing became -quick and shallow. With staring, grateful eyes he watched the needle -settle a tenth of a degree and stay there. The mental relief was almost -overwhelming. Had there been moisture left in his tear ducts Frane -would have cried. But now, with the strained concentration gone he -became fuzzy. He slipped in and out of consciousness, and dead faces -began drifting past his eyes.</p> - -<p>This wouldn't do. He had one more job left. He looked at his -chronometer. In another eight minutes he must throw the drive lever -and kill all acceleration. The pirate ship's orbital prediction was -based on this timed interruption of the freighter's drive. So much as -two minutes off, he had been impressed, would make their search hours -longer, since they were approaching from the rear at an angle.</p> - -<p>He sagged into the pilot's chair again, but sitting down was no good. -Instantly the ghost faces began their parade, and the death smell, -mingled with the saturated dessicant's rank stink threatened to -strangle him. The belly full of rations he had force-fed himself to -sustain him the twenty hours of waiting pressed heavily against his -heaving diaphragm.</p> - -<p>He gained his feet, stood with his hand on the fuel lever control and -stared fixedly at his chronometer. Two minutes.</p> - -<p>The navigator's swollen face, eyes bulging, stared into his helmet.</p> - -<p>"Get out of my way. Got to see my watch. Get—"</p> - -<p>He brushed at the phantom as if it were a cloud of gnats. He was -confident now. The temperature gauge showed his body heat to be -constant at 104.4 F. Thirty seconds now and he could give himself over -to his fever dreams. Twenty seconds.</p> - -<p>The broken jawed image persisted mistily. But now the face was -repaired. It was the young tense face before he had crushed it with his -blaster. It had that hard, determined look on it.</p> - -<p>The fire in his body swept up into his brain. The bodyless image spoke -softly, "You're going to die. You are going to move the fuel control -the wrong way. You can't remember which way they said to move it. It -isn't marked. You can't remember."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I can!" The chronometer said twelve seconds.</p> - -<p>"You made one mistake. You put on your clothes over the spaceman's -underwear. Your body heat can't escape. Your brain is burning up. You -can't remember about the lever. You will move it the wrong way."</p> - -<p>"So what? Then I'll move it the other way," Frane screamed.</p> - -<p>The tiny clock zeroed. Frane pressed the lever away from him. That was -the way to stop any earth vehicle—pressure forward on the air brake -pedal. He shoved hard.</p> - -<p>The rockets roared out full blast far behind him. The building -acceleration caught him and flung him stumbling back against the -bulkhead. Then the firing took on complete departure blast rate.</p> - -<p>Pinned like a butterfly specimen, eight G's smashed Frane Lewis' space -suit against the metal wall. Lewis, being free inside the suit, was -pressed hard against the interior of its back side.</p> - -<p>The cold he had been seeking struck through the wet, felt lining and -his exterior clothes. The thickly corded spaceman's underwear delayed -the frost momentarily, but then the sweat froze. The death smell seized -his throat. Dimly he knew what was happening, but he felt only heat. -The sear of an atomic furnace burning his shoulders, buttocks, leg -calves, through into his spine.</p> - -<p>The heat—the terrible sear of space cold.</p> - -<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLAY-RIDE ***</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 64141-h.htm or 64141-h.zip</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/1/4/64141/</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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