"Fistfight my aunt's purple asterisk. You hit Lew in the throat and watched him drown in his own blood. Don't tell me you didn't know what you were doing. Everybody in town knows you know karate."
"He died in minutes. I'll need a whole day!"
"You don't like that? Turn around and rush my gun. It's right here waiting."
"We could get back to the crater in time to search for that Martian. That's why I came to Mars. To learn what's here. So did you, Alf Come on, let's turn back."
"You first."
But he couldn't. He couldn't. Karate can defeat any hand-to-hand weapon but a quarterstaff, and Carter had quarterstaff training too. But he couldn't charge a flare gun! Not even if Alf meant to turn back. And Alf didn't.
A faint whine vibrated through the bubble. The sandstorm was at the height of its fury, which made it about as dangerous as an enraged caterpillar. At worst it was an annoyance. The shrill, barely audible whine could get on one's nerves, and the darkness made streetlamps necessary. Tomorrow the bubble would be covered a tenth of an inch deep in fine, moon-dry silt. Inside the bubble it would be darker than night until someone blew the silt away with an O-tank.
To Shute the storm was depressing. Here on Mars was Lieutenant-Major Shute, Boy Hero, facing terrifying dangers on the frontiers of human exploration! A sandstorm that wouldn't have harmed an infant. Nobody here faced a single danger that he had not brought with him.
Would it be like this forever? Men traveling enormous distances to face themselves?
There had been little work done since noon today. Shute had given up on that. On a stack of walls sat Timmy, practically surrounding the buggy-pickup radio, surrounded in turn by the bubble's population.
Timmy stood up as Shute approached the group. "They're gone," he announced, sounding very tired. He turned off the radio. The men looked at each other, and some got to their feet.
"Tim! How'd you lose them?"
Timmy noticed him. "They're too far away, Mayor."
"They never turned around?"
"They never did. They just kept going out into the desert. Alf must have gone insane. Carter's not worth dying for."
Shute thought, But he was once. Carter had been one of the best: tough, fearless, bright, enthusiastic. Shute had watched him deteriorate under the boredom and the close quarters aboard ship. He had seemed to recover when they reached Mars, when all of them suddenly had work to do. Then, yesterday morning- murder.
Alf. It was hard to lose Alf. Lew had been little loss, but Alf-
Cousins dropped into step beside him. "I've got that red-pencil work done."
"Thanks, Lee. I'll have to do it all over now."
"Don't do it over. Write an addendum. Show how and why three men died. Then you can say, `I told you so.'"
"You think so?"
"My professional judgment. When's the funeral?"
"Day after tomorrow. That's Sunday. I thought it would be appropriate."
"You can say all three services at once. Good timing."
To all bubbletown, Jack Carter and Alf Harness were dead. But they still breathed-
The mountains came toward them: the only fixed points in an ocean of sand. Alf was closer now, something less than four hundred yards behind. At five o'clock Carter reached the base of the mountains.
They were too high to go over on the air jet. He could see spots where he might have landed the buggy while the pump filled the jet tank for another hop. But for what?
Better to wait for Alf
Suddenly Carter knew that that was the one thing in the world Alf wanted. To roll up alongside in his buggy. To watch Carter's face until he was sure Carter knew exactly what was to come. And then to blast Carter down in flames from ten feet away, and watch while a bright magnesium-oxidizer flare burned through his suit and skin and vitals.
The hills were low and shallow. Even from yards away he migh have been looking at the smooth flank of a sleeping beast-excepq that this beast was not breathing. Carter took a deep breath, noticing.;
how stale the air had become despite the purifier unit, and turned on the compressed-air jet.
The air of Mars is terribly thin, but it can be compressed; and a rocket will work anywhere, even a compressed-air rocket. Carter went up, leaning as far back in the cabin as he could to compensate for the loss of weight in the O-tanks behind him, to put as little work as possible on gyroscopes meant to spin only in emergencies. He rose fast, and he tilted the buggy to send it skating along the thirty-degree slope of the hill. There were flat places along the slope, but not many. He should reach the first one easily...
A flare exploded in his eyes. Carter clenched his teeth and fought the urge to look behind. He tilted the buggy backward to slow him down. The jet pressure was dropping.
He came down like a feather two hundred feet above the desert. When he turned off the jet he could hear the gyros whining. He turned the stabilizer off and let them run down. Now there was only the chugging of the compressor, vibrating through his suit.
Alf was out of his buggy, standing at the base of the mountains, looking up.
"Come on," said Carter. "What are you waiting for?"
"Go on over if you want to."
"What's the matter? Are your gyros fouled?"
"Your brain is fouled, Carter. Go on over." Alf raised one arm stiffly out. The hand showed flame, and Carter ducked instinctively.
The compressor had almost stopped, which meant the tank was nearly full. But Carter would be a fool to take off before it was completely full. You got the greatest acceleration from an air jet during the first seconds of flight. The rest of the flight you got just enough pressure to keep you going.
But-Alf was getting into his buggy. Now the buggy was rising.
Carter turned on his jet and went up.
He came down hard, three hundred feet high, and only then dared to look down. He heard Alf s nasty laugh, and he saw that Alf was still at the foot of the mountains. It had been a bluff!
But why wasn't Alf coming after him?
The third hop took him to the top. The first downhill hop was the first he'd ever made, and it almost killed him. He had to do his de-
celerating on the last remnants of pressure in the jet tank! He waited until his hands stopped shaking, then continued the rest of the way on the wheels. There was no sign of Alf as he reached the foot of the range and started out into the desert.
Already the sun was about to go. Faint bluish stars in a red-black sky outlined the yellow hills behind him.
Still no sign of Alf.
Alf spoke in his ear, gently, almost kindly. "You'll just have to come back, Jack."
"Don't hold your breath."
"I'd rather not have to. That's why I'm telling you this. Look at your watch."
It was about six-thirty.
"Did you look? Now count it up. I started with forty-four hours of air. You started with fifty-two. That gave us ninety-six breathing hours between us. Together we've used up sixty-one hours. That leaves thirty-five between us.