Triplanetary, E. E. Smith [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

it in a lockbox in our armor⁠—and we all know how to use it, because crooks all use Vee-Two and so we’re always expecting it. But since the air will be pure again in half an hour we’ll be able to revive the others easily enough if we can get by with whatever is going to happen next. There’s the bird that did it, right in the air-room. It’s the Chief Engineer’s suit, but that isn’t Franklin that’s in it. Some passenger⁠—disguised⁠—slugged the Chief⁠—took his suit and projectors⁠—hole in duct⁠—p-s-s-t! All washed out! Maybe that’s all he was scheduled to do to us in this performance, but he’ll do nothing else in his life!”

“Don’t go down there!” protested the girl. “His armor is so much better than that emergency suit you are wearing, and he’s got Mr. Franklin’s Lewiston, besides!”

“Don’t be an idiot!” he snapped. “We can’t have a live pirate aboard⁠—we’re going to be altogether too busy with outsiders directly. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give him a break. I’ll take a Standish⁠—I’ll rub him out like a blot. Stay right here until I come back after you,” he commanded, and the heavy door of the lifeboat clanged shut behind him as he leaped out into the promenade.

Straight across the saloon he made his way, paying no attention to the inert forms scattered here and there. Going up to a blank wall, he manipulated an almost invisible dial set flush with its surface, swung a heavy door aside, and lifted out the Standish⁠—a fearsome weapon. Squat, huge, and heavy, it resembled somewhat an overgrown machine rifle, but one possessing a thick, short telescope, with several opaque condensing lenses and parabolic reflectors. Laboring under the weight of the thing, he strode along corridors and clambered heavily down short stairways. Finally he came to the purifier room, and grinned savagely as he saw the greenish haze of light obscuring the door and walls⁠—the shield was still in place; the pirate was still inside, still flooding with the terrible Vee Two the Hyperion’s primary air.

He set his peculiar weapon down, unfolded its three massive legs, crouched down behind it, and threw in a switch. Dull red beams of frightful intensity shot from the reflectors and sparks, almost of lightning proportions, leaped from the shielding screen under their impact. Roaring and snapping, the conflict went on for seconds, then, under the superior force of the Standish, the greenish radiance gave way. Behind it the metal of the door ran the gamut of color⁠—red, yellow, blinding white⁠—then literally exploded; molten, vaporized, burned away. Through the aperture thus made Costigan could plainly see the pirate in the space-armor of the chief engineer⁠—an armor which was proof against rifle fire and which could reflect and neutralize for some little time even the terrific beam Costigan was employing. Nor was the pirate unarmed⁠—a vicious flare of incandescence leaped from his Lewiston, to spend its force in spitting, crackling pyrotechnics against the ether-wall of the squat and monstrous Standish. But Costigan’s infernal engine did not rely only upon vibratory destruction. At almost the first flash of the pirate’s weapon the officer touched a trigger, there was a double report, ear-shattering in that narrowly confined space, and the pirate’s body literally flew into mist as a half-kilogram shell tore through his armor and exploded. Costigan shut off his beam, and with not the slightest softening of one hard lineament stared around the air-room; making sure that no serious damage had been done to the vital machinery of the air-purifier⁠—the very lungs of the great spaceship.

Dismounting the Standish, he lugged it back up to the main saloon, replaced it in its safe, and again set the combination lock. Thence to the lifeboat, where Clio cried out in relief as she saw that he was unhurt.

“Oh, Conway, I’ve been so afraid something would happen to you!” she exclaimed, as he led her rapidly upward toward the control room. “Of course you⁠ ⁠…” she paused.

“Sure,” he replied, laconically. “Nothing to it. How do you feel⁠—about back to normal?”

“All right, I think, except for being scared to death and just about out of control. I don’t suppose that I’ll be good for anything, but whatever I can do, count me in on.”

“Fine⁠—you may be needed, at that. Everybody’s out, apparently, except those like me, who had a warning and could hold their breath until they got to their suits.”

“But how did you know what it was? You can’t see it, nor smell it, nor anything.”

“You inhaled a second before I did, and I saw your eyes. I’ve been in it before⁠—and when you see a man get a jolt of that stuff just once, you never forget it. The engineers down below got it first, of course⁠—it must have wiped them out. Then we got it in the saloon. Your passing out warned me, and luckily I had enough breath left to give the word. Quite a few of the fellows up above should have had time to get away⁠—we’ll see ’em all in the control room.”

“I suppose that was why you revived me⁠—in payment for so kindly warning you of the gas attack?” The girl laughed; shaky, but game.

“Something like that, probably,” he answered, lightly. “Here we are⁠—now we’ll soon find out what’s going to happen next.”

In the control room they saw at least a dozen armored figures; not now rushing about, but seated at their instruments, tense and ready. Fortunate it was that Costigan⁠—veteran of space as he was, though young in years⁠—had been down in the saloon; fortunate that he had been familiar with that horrible outlawed gas; fortunate that he had had presence of mind enough and sheer physical stamina enough to send his warning without allowing one paralyzing trace to enter his own lungs. Captain Bradley, the men on watch, and several other officers in their quarters or in the wardrooms⁠—space-hardened veterans all⁠—had obeyed instantly and without question the amplifiers’ gasped command to “get tight.” Exhaling or inhaling,