“By the gods,” Metropolis whispered. “I’ve been just as moronic as those jackanapes I hate so much. I was so fired up to find Marshall and get back those papers that I’ve missed the most obvious threat of all!”
The doctor began pulling the car back onto the road. I noted with a pang of regret that my beloved car seemed to have acquired some new squeak that had never been present before.
“We built that rocket ship at a small airfield not far from here. If Marshall has Smithson’s papers, then he’ll know all about it. I’ll be damned to a thousand hells before I let that thief steal this glory from me!”
I held my tongue, though once again I noticed that Metropolis was letting his hunger for scientific achievement override his compassion. His friend lay dead and yet here was the doctor arguing that this glory would not be stolen ‘from me.’
Despite this, I knew that Metropolis was a good man at heart… and that he was right in that we could not allow the first contact between our world and Antichthon to be carried out by murderers and thieves.
With a new destination in sight, we sped along towards the airfield.
The airfield was a rather unimpressive affair, consisting of several long hangers, a single airstrip and a small monitoring tower. It was the sort of thing that had been built in the heady days of the Roaring Twenties, when the entire world was convinced that the good times were never going to end. But then came the Crash, and all those who had partied through the nights suddenly realized that their empires rested on false dreams.
The doctor parked our battered car a few hundred yards from the airfield and we approached with as much care as we possibly could. Several cars were parked in front of a hanger that Metropolis identified as being the one where Smithson’s rocket ship was housed. I managed, with great difficulty, to persuade the doctor to not simply barge in with fists bared.
We pressed our backs against the outer wall of the hanger, moving close enough to hear several male voices from within. Their words proved to be conclusive proof of several things: 1) the mastermind behind the murder was, indeed, Whip Marshall and 2) the group was indeed planning to visit Counter-Earth. Their words were as follows:
“Mr. Marshall, I think we’ve managed to figure out the controls of this ship. It’s pretty basic stuff, really. Not any harder than handling a small plane.”
“Is it fueled?” Marshall responded. I noticed that his voice was very cold and monotone… almost reptilian in nature.
“It’s ready to go,” a third voice confirmed. “I’ve already loaded on the weapons and supplies.”
At the mention of ‘weapons,’ I looked with alarm at Gilda. None of us were armed, though Metropolis was such a bear that his fists packed more of a wallop than most small arms.
“Good. I just hope that fool was right about what conditions would be like over there… the last thing I’d want to do is step off the rocket ship and find out we couldn’t breathe what passes for air on that planet,” Marshall muttered. “We need to leave plenty of room in the hold. When all is said and done, we’ll take whatever we can from the residents of Antichthon and abandon the rest!”
Gilda’s hand came to rest on my arm. She leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “Marshall’s planning to betray them?”
“But why…?” I wondered.
“Any number of reasons, my boy,” the doctor said, having heard our exchange. “Perhaps he considers the residents of Counter-Earth less than human since they’re not from our world. Or he might simply be so desirous of personal glory that their plight is simply not a concern. I wouldn’t put it past him that he means to eventually put whatever weaponry he can find there to use on our world: set himself up as some sort of dictator, where we’ll all have to pledge fealty to his magnificence.”
“That’s an odd conclusion to jump to,” I replied. “It’s one thing to plan to go to another planet and consider taking it over… but to work against your own people back home? I can’t fathom how evil that would be.”
“It’s less evil to conquer others, just because they’re not your own kind?” Metropolis wanted to know, staring at me critically.
With my cheeks growing crimson, I recanted immediately. He was right, of course.
“What should we do now?” I asked, already fearing that I knew the answer. Given my druthers, I would have immediately called for the authorities and allowed them to handle things in the manner for which they had been trained, but Doctor Metropolis considered police officers to be barely a rung above chimpanzees when it came to the evolutionary ladder.
Metropolis smiled savagely at my question, his clean white teeth poking out from beneath the thicket of beard he possessed. “We break up their little party, Stanford.”
Without another word, the bear of a man who was my father-in-law let out a roar that sounded akin to that of a savage barbarian. He ran around the corner, Gilda and myself close at his heels. There were two men within that wore gray suits and who bore the looks of hired guns. The third man was obviously Marshall, for he was dressed in finer clothing and possessed an air of detached superiority that only those of supreme confidence could wield.
Beside them rested a massive rocket ship, lying in such a manner that its nose was pointed at angle that would take it straight out the side of the roof. The ship was red and white in color, its metal hull riveted together. A solitary window located at the front would conceivably give its passengers a view of their journey.
Metropolis did not seem fazed by the appearance of the starship. He snatched up the nearest of the men and lifted the gunman off the ground. He whirled about, still snarling like a beast, and tossed the fellow across the hangar. I was once more struck by how powerful my father-in-law truly was. I turned my attention to the other fellow, who was drawing a pistol. Gilda sprang forward, showing herself to be her father’s daughter. She delivered a powerful kick to the man’s gun hand, causing him to discharge his weapon. The bullet ricocheted off the floor, mere inches from my foot. I let out a surprised squawk that did nothing to enhance my masculinity.
Gilda, meanwhile, was finishing off the surprised thug in the most impressive of fashion. She gave him a fast chop to the throat and then drove a knee into his midsection. As the fellow doubled over, she finished him off by grabbing his collar and driving him headfirst into the hull of the rocket ship.
Metropolis had wasted no time in taking advantage of his daughter’s actions. He advanced upon Marshall, who backed away in sudden alarm. Marshall’s fine clothing and noble bearing made Metropolis look pale in comparison but there was no denying that the doctor’s squat, broad-shouldered form was the more powerful of the two. In this confrontation, there was little doubt that Marshall’s financial empire would avail him naught.
“Metropolis… calm down, man!” Marshall exclaimed, raising his hands to try and ward off the doctor. “We can talk this through! There’s no reason we can’t share in this glorious find!”
“Did you make that same offer to Smithson before you murdered him?” Metropolis demanded, driving Marshall back until the well-dressed man was pressed against the wall.
I could see several thoughts pass through Marshall’s mind: should he attempt to lie and cover up his actions or admit the truth? In the end, the latter won out. “Smithson was a fool. You know that! It takes men of vision to determine that action is needed!”
Metropolis wrapped a massive hand about the man’s throat and began to apply pressure. I could see Marshall’s eyes begin to bulge and he awkwardly tried to push the larger man away.