They were obviously having one whale of a time.
He stared at the devices.
With unbelievably good luck, he had stumbled, within a half hour of the first landing on the Dawnworld, on one of their matter converters. They were paying no attention to him. He might as well have not existed. Suppose he took one of the things up. What would they do? It was hard to believe that any of these people were apt to resort to violence. And most certainly they carried no weapons.
But that gave him pause. Given the occasion, who could say but that they were capable of pouring a handful of sand into one of their gismos and bring forth a pistol to end all pistols?
But this was his obvious chance. For whatever reason, the Baron was evidently still on this planet. His expedition, thus far, had failed. If Ronny could acquire one of these working models of matter transformers, Section G’s technicians could possibly take it apart, duplicate it, come up with larger models.
He went so far as to tentatively reach forth a hand toward the nearest. They continued to ignore him. By not a flicker of eye did they admit to his presence.
Ronny drew his hand back.
He wondered wildly if he were invisible to them. But no. Obviously these people were human. Perhaps not exactly of his genus, but most certainly they were of the species Homo. This world of theirs had obviously been landscaped to please their own taste. It pleased his as well. They saw what he saw.
He stared at the matter converter. There it was. There was victory over the Baron and his plans to dominate.
Something kept him. Intuition? What? He didn’t know. He was disgusted with himself. Why not snatch it up?
His communicator hummed. Impatiently, he snatched it from his pocket. It was Birdman again.
“What is it?” Ronny snapped.
“Baron Wyler,” the Indian said urgently. “He’s made contact with us.”
“Oh.” Ronny paused. The Baron’s space yacht was considerably larger than the four man United Planets Space Cruiser. Ronny had no doubt that it was armed with the most efficient weapons the Baron could find.
He asked, “What does he want?”
“Help.”
XIV
For the moment, he didn’t allow himself to dwell further on that. He snapped, “Tell the skipper to get down here and pick me up.”
“Right,” Phil said, and faded.
Ronny Bronston went back to the grove in which the Pisa had set him down such a short time before. His mind was in a whirl. He held in abeyance Birdman’s information about the Baron, and tried to find some rhyme or reason about his own discoveries.
Wyler and Fitzjames must have been right. These people were not intelligent in the sense of the word that Homo sapiens implied. Intelligent, somehow, he supposed. But with a different intelligence. He shook his head in exasperation.
The Pisa came gently to rest, and he went over to it as quickly as was safe.
The captain and Birdman were at the lock when he entered.
Ronny snapped, “What’s all this… ?”
Phil Birdman said, “Wyler took the initiative. I suppose he picked us up as quickly as we did his yacht. At any rate, he contacted us. He says he wants help.”
“Help from what?”
“He didn’t say.”
They went back to the control room and joined the others.
Ronny said, “It’s a trap, he’s trying to suck us in.”
Captain Volos shook his head. “I don’t think so. On the screen, he looked like a broken man. Obviously, he knows you’ll place him under arrest. That all his plans are shot.”
Phil Birdman said, “Listen, let’s leave him in whatever juice he’s stewing in. If it’s a trap, we won’t spring it. If he’s really in trouble, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
Rita held a small fist to her mouth.
Ronny shook his head. “No,” he said. “Let’s get over there. No matter what, he’s our people, and we’re all in a strange land.” He grumbled, “A damnably strange land.”
While the captain and his crew turned to their ship’s controls, Rita looked at Ronny Bronston. She said softly, “You’re not the worst person around, young fella.”
Ronny chuckled wryly. “The term is old man, not young fella.” He turned to the others and gave them a quick rundown on his meagre adventures.
He earned their disbelieving stares.
Phil Birdman blurted, “Why didn’t you slap one of them across the chops? That would have got a rise.”
Ronny looked at him. “I didn’t think of that.” He paused. Then, “You wouldn’t have, either. Somehow, there’s a no-touch feeling in the air.”
“Why didn’t you put the lift on one of the converters, or whatever they are?”
Ronny scowled, “I don’t know. The no-touch atmosphere entered into that, too.”
Takashi said, “There is the Phrygian ship.”
They brought it into the large screen.
“No sign of a fight, or anything,” Phil Birdman said. The space yacht was at rest in a lovely dell. Voids looked at the Section G operatives. Ronny took a breath and said, “All right. Set down next to them.” He looked at the Pisa’s three junior officers, finally deciding on Richardson. He said, “If I give you a gun, do you think you can keep from shooting me with it?”
The young ensign was embarrassed. “Yes, sir. Sorry about our earlier difficulties, sir.”
Ronny said, “Richardson and I will go over and case the situation. I’ll keep my communicator on, and in constant touch. Anything goes wrong, you take off. Birdman will be in charge. Does Wyler know that Citizeness Daniels is aboard?”
“I talked with Uncle Max,” she said worriedly. “Can’t I go with you?”
“Not yet,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid you’re still a hostage. I doubt if he’ll attack the Pisa as long as you’re aboard.”
Rita shook her head. “He wouldn’t attack it, anyway. Something terrible has happened.”
“We’ll see,” Ronny said. “Come on, Ensign.” Takashi saw them through the lock, and closed it behind. They crossed the seemingly neatly trimmed grass to the other craft. Ronny looked it over. A luxurious, highly powered yacht, probably as fast as anything UP could produce. And, obviously, well-armed to boot.
He had expected to be met by well disciplined, nattily uniformed spacemen of the Phrygian space forces, but instead, Count Fitzjames was the only one at the lock to greet them.
Ronny made a brief introduction, not hiding the fact that he was holding his communicator up. His right hand was ready for a quick draw.
Count Fitzjames said, the usual worry in his voice, “The Supreme Commandant is in his lounge. This way.”
Baron Wyler was indeed in the lounge. He was sprawled, as though exhausted, in a deep chair. His eyes were wide and unseeing, and there was despair in his face. Ronny stood before him and he looked up. There was no more of the hail-fellow-well-met tone of voice. No friendly projection of personality, no all-embracing charm of the born leader of men.
Ronny and Ensign Richardson had seen no others on their way through the ship. It came to Ronny that whatever had happened, this was no trap. Neither Wyler nor Fitzjames were shamming. Somehow, their expedition had become a cropper.
“All right,” Ronny said. “What happened? What did you mean when you radioed us for help?”