I drag the doc into the nearest hut. "Why do they call us Blacks?" I demand. "And who are they anyway?"
"Matt," he says quietly, "let me have your gun."
Without questions I fork over the roscoe. "What plans you got, chief?" I say, feeling very good after the free-for-all.
"Things begin to fall into place," he says. "Sir Peter, the chap we met, broke down and told me his viewpoint. It wasn't much, but I can tell there's something horrible going on." He actually shudders. "I'm going to see the Old Man. You please stay outside the hut and see that none of the Whites interrupt us."
"I don't think they will," I inform him, peeking out. "The battle's over and—awk!— they ain't taking prisoners." I had just seen that pretty little woman bashing in the head of an unconscious White on the ground. "So the Whites are those people that just came and—left?" I asks. "And we're the Blacks?"
"That's right, Matt."
"Sorry, chief," I says mournfully. "I don't get it."
So we leave for the hut of the Old Man.
While I stand guard outside there is a long conversation in muffled tones; then, so quick they almost sounded like one shot, the roar of the Old Man's .45 and the crack of the roscoe. I bust through the door, and see the doc bleeding from his shoulder and the Old Man lying very dead on his floor.
I tape up the doc as well as I can, but a .45 leaves a terrible cavity in a man. As soon as he is able to talk I warn him: "You better get a doctor to see after that thing. It'll infect as sure as fate."
"It probably will," says the doc weakly. Then he mutters, "That old monster! That horrible old—" and the rest is words that seem all the worse coming as they do from the doc, who is a mild-mannered person in appearance.
"You mean his late nibs?" I ask.
"Yes. That fiend! Listen: I don't know what set him off on that train of thought, but he had a pet theory of some kind. He told me all about it, with his gun trained on me. He was going to kill me when he was quite finished. I had your gun in my pocket, my hand on the trigger.
"He actually was a noble of Britain, and he used every cent he had on lecherous pursuits and the proof of his doctrine—a kind of superman-cum-troglodyte-cum-Mendel-cum-Mills-cum-Wells-cum-Pavlov social theory. Fantastic, of course. Couldn't work except in a case like this.
"So he financed research along lines much like mine and brought himself and mistresses and library and equipment into this plane. And then he proceeded with his scheme. It was his aim to propagandize a race with such thoroughness that his will would be instinct to his descendants! And he succeeded, in a limited way.
"Arbitrarily, he divided his offspring into two camps, about the third generation, and ingrained in each a hatred of the other. To further the terrible joke he named them arbitrarily Black and White, after the innocent war-games of his youth. His aim was—ultimately—to have both camps exterminate the other. For him to be the only survivor.
Madman! Hideous madman!"
"That all?" I ask, not wanting to tire him.
"No. He has the equipment to get back into our own plane. I'm going to use it now to send you back, Matt. You can say with almost perfect veracity that you bumped me off as per orders."
"But why don't you send these people back?" I ask, being real bright.
"They wouldn't like it, Matt. It would be too great a strain on them.
Besides, in the month or so that I'll last here, with this wound in my shoulder, I can throw a perfectly effective monkeywrench into the Old Man's plans. I think that in a few years the Blacks and Whites will be friends."
"I got a better idea," I says with authority. "You go back to Earth and I stay here. You can get patched up by any good medico. And I won't mind it much." And that's what little Matt says, thinking of a golden-haired lady who might be taught that monogamy ain't necessarily a deadly sin.
So Judy, you be a good little sister and open that safe-deposit box of mine—doc will give you the key—and give doc five thousand to square himself with Lucco. And you take the rest and quit that chain-store job and start yourself the swellest beauty parlor in town, just like you always wanted to.
And keep in touch with doc. He's a great guy, but he needs somebody around to see that he don't hurt himself.
Dead Center
The chilled-steel muzzle of the old-fashioned automatic swerved not an inch as Angel Maclure spoke: "I'm at your service, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
"Put that gun down," advised the shorter man easily. "We just didn't want any fuss. You have our blasters—we won't try anything."
Maclure grinned and lowered his pistol. "Right," he said. "I wasn't sure whether you'd mistaken me for a banker or somebody who deserved killing." He gestured at the blasters which he had wrenched from his assailants' hands. "Pick 'em up, boys." They did, and pocketed the deadly little tubes. "Now what did you want?"
The shorter, softer-spoken man began: "Excuse my friend—he's new in our service. He doesn't realize that we should have asked you first and then pulled the tubes. Understand?"
"All forgiven," said Maclure shortly. "I just didn't expect to be jumped two minutes after I get off a liner. It usually takes months before the police hear that I'm around. What's the service you mentioned?"
"Let's wait before I tell you anything," said the shorter man. He smiled confidingly. "You'll find out enough to blow your top off. Now, Mr.
Maclure, you're supposed to come with us—whether of your own free will or by force. Understand?"
"Sure. Call me Angel. What's your tag?"
Maclure walked off down the street, flanked by the other two. He knew that their pocketed hands fingered blaster tubes, and that a false move might cost him a foot or arm. But he was interested by the distinctly peculiar set-up he had seemingly blundered into. The last year he had spent on Venus doing a big engineering job—barracks and installation—for one of the wildcat land promoter outfits. The new scar on his jaw he had acquired when he had stormed into the company offices with a pay-slip that he wanted cashed in full. He still carried the scar, but he had got his due amount, and with it a bit of interest lying in the back of the blasted safe. His trip to Earth again had been in quest of some much-needed relaxation; he had not taken kindly to being jumped by two strangers.
The shorter man hesitated. "I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of me. Baldur Gaussman."
"Yeah?" asked Angel, impressed. "You did that first floating weather station on Uranus, didn't you?"
"That's right," said Gaussman. He halted before a curtained taxi. "We get in here," he said quietly. And they did.
As the taxi took off Angel didn't even try to figure out the direction they were taking; he knew that the involved loops and spins would hopelessly confuse him. He faced Gaussman quizzically. "This must be something awfully big," he said. "I mean using high-grade extraterrestrial engineers for muscle-men on a simple pick-up job. Unless I guess wrong this is concerned with some pretty high finance."
The taller man took out his blaster again. "Don't try anything this time,"
he said thickly. "And don't get nosey before you're supposed to. You can get hurt doing that."
"Yeah?" asked Angel, mildly eyeing him. "That struck home? Okay, pal."
He turned again to Gaussman. "You must have been in this for several years, whatever it is," he said.
"That's right. My last job in the open was for Pluto Colony Corporation. I handled their mining in full." He glanced at his watch. "We're here," he said. As he spoke the muffled hum of the plane stopped abruptly and Angel felt it being swung about by a ground crew or turntable. He grinned.
"As I figure it," he said, "we've come about seventy-three miles due east after swinging around four times to throw my sense of direction off the track. I think we're in the heart of the New York financial district, on about the twentieth floor of a very high building."