The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
got a lot of planets the Patrol never heard of, and you could keep a man interested for quite a while, if you really tried. And if you beg hard enough maybe I'll let you try. However, I'd get just as much fun out of killing you as out of the other, so it's up to you. Not sudden death, of course. Little things, at first, like we've been doing. A few more touches of warmth here and there—so....
"Scream as much as you please. I enjoy it, and this room is sound-proof. Once more, boys, about half an inch higher this time ... up ... steady ... down. We'll have half an hour or so of this stuff"—Herkimer knew that to the quivering, sensitive, highly imaginative girl his words would be practically as punishing as the atrocious actualities themselves—"then I'll do things to your finger-nails and toe-nails, beginning with burning slivers of double-base flare powder and working up. Then your eyes—or no, I'll save them until last, so you can watch a couple of Venerian slasher-worms work on you, one on each leg, and a Martian digger on your bare belly."
Gripping her hair firmly in his left hand, he forced her head back and down; down almost to her hard-held hands. His right hand, concealing something which he had not mentioned and which was probably starkly unmentionable, approached her taut-stretched throat.
"Talk or not, just as you please." The voice was utterly callous, as chill as the death she now knew he was so willing to deal. "But listen. If you elect to talk, tell the truth. You won't lie twice. I'll count to ten. One."
Jill uttered a gurgling, strangling noise and he lifted her head a trifle.
"Can you talk now?"
"Yes."
"Two."
Helpless, immobile, scared now to a depth of terror she had never imagined it possible to feel, Jill fought her wrenched and shaken mind back from insanity's very edge; managed with a pale tongue to lick bloodless lips. Pops Kinnison always said a man could die only once, but he didn't know ... in battle, yes, perhaps ... but she had already died a dozen times—but she'd keep on dying forever before she'd say a word. But—
"Tell him, Jill!" Northrop's thought beat at her mind. He, her lover, was unashamedly frantic; as much with sheer rage as with sympathy for her physical and mental anguish. "For the nineteenth time I say tell him! We've just located you—Hancock Avenue—we'll be there in two minutes!"
"Yes, Jill, quit being a damned stubborn jackass and tell him!" Jack Kinnison's thought bit deep; but this time, strangely enough, the girl felt no repugnance at his touch. There was nothing whatever of the lover; nor of the brother, except of the fraternity of arms. She belonged. She would come out of this brawl right side up or none of them would. "Tell the goddam rat the truth!" Jack's thought drove on. "It won't make any difference—he won't live long enough to pass it on!"
"But I can't—I won't!" Jill stormed. "Why, Pops Kinnison would...."
"Not this time I wouldn't, Jill!" Samms' thought tried to come in, too, but the Port Admiral's vehemence was overwhelming. "No harm—he's doing this strictly on his own—if Morgan had had any idea he'd've killed him first. Start talking or I'll spank you to a rosy blister!"
They were to laugh, later, at the incongruity of that threat, but it did produce results.
"Nine." Herkimer grinned wolfishly, in sadistic anticipation.
"Stop it—I'll tell!" she screamed. "Stop it—take that thing away—I can't stand it—I'll tell!" She burst into racking, tearing sobs.
"Steady." Herkimer put something in his pocket, then slapped her so viciously that fingers-long marks sprang into red relief upon the chalk-white background of her cheek. "Don't crack up; I haven't started to work on you yet. What about that Lens?"
She gulped twice before she could speak. "It comes from—ulp!—Arisia. I haven't got one myself, so I don't know very much—ulp!—about it at first hand, but from what the boys tell me it must be...."
* * * * *
Outside the building three black forms arrowed downward. Northrop and young Kinnison stopped at the sixth level; Costigan went on down to take care of the guards.
"Bullets, not beams," the Irishman reminded his younger fellows. "We'll have to clean up the mess without leaving a trace, so don't do any more damage to the property than you absolutely have to."
Neither made any reply; they were both too busy. The two thugs standing behind the steel chair, being armed openly, went first; then Jack put a bullet through Herkimer's head. But Northrop was not content with that. He slid the pin to "full automatic" and ten more heavy slugs tore into the falling body before it struck the floor.
Three quick slashes and the girl was free.
"Jill!"
"Mase!"
Locked in each other's arms, straining together, no bystander would have believed that this was their first kiss. It was plainly—yes, quite spectacularly—evident, however, that it would not be their last.
Jack, blushing furiously, picked up the cloak and flung it at the oblivious couple.
"P-s-s-t! P-s-s-t! Jill! Wrap 'em up!" he whispered, urgently. "All the top brass in space is coming at full emergency blast—there'll be scrambled eggs all over the place any second now—Mase! Damn your thick, hard skull, snap out of it! He's always frothing at the mouth about her running around half naked and if he sees her like this—especially with you—he'll simply have a litter of lizards! You'll get a million black spots and seven hundred years in the clink! That's better—'bye now—I'll see you up at New York Spaceport."
Jack Kinnison dashed to the nearest window, threw it open, and dived headlong out of the building.
CHAPTER 14
The employment office of any concern with personnel running into the hundreds of thousands is a busy place indeed, even when its plants are all on Tellus and its working conditions are as nearly ideal as such things can be made. When that firm's business is Colonial, however, and its working conditions are only a couple of degrees removed from slavery, procurement of personnel is a first-magnitude problem; the Personnel Department, like Alice in Wonderland, must run as fast as it can go in order to stay where it is. Thus the "Help Wanted" advertisements of Uranium, Incorporated covered the planet Earth with blandishment and guile; and thus for twelve hours of every day and for seven days of every week the employment offices of Uranium, Inc. were filled with men—mostly the scum of Earth.
There were, of course, exceptions; one of which strode through the motley group of waiting men and thrust a card through the "Information" wicket. He was a chunky-looking individual, appearing shorter than his actual five feet nine because of a hundred and ninety pounds of weight—even though every pound was placed exactly where it would do the most good. He looked—well, slouchy—and his mien was sullen.
"Birkenfeld—by appointment," he growled through the wicket, in a voice which could have been pleasantly deep.
The coolly efficient blonde manipulated plugs. "Mr. George W. Jones, sir, by appointment.... Thank you, sir," and Mr. Jones was escorted into Mr. Birkenfeld's private office.
"Have a chair, please, Mr. ... er ... Jones."
"So you know?"
"Yes. It is seldom that a man of your education, training, and demonstrated ability applies to us for employment of his own initiative, and a very thorough investigation is indicated."
"What am I here for, then?" the visitor demanded, truculently. "You could have turned me down by mail. Everybody else has, since I got out."
"You are here because we who operate on the frontiers cannot afford to pass judgment upon a man because of his past, unless that past precludes the probability of a useful future. Yours does not; and in some cases, such as yours, we are very deeply interested in the future." The official's