They played a ghastly game on that lonely asteroid.
Killer and victim-to-be danced and feinted between
space-beacon and ship. Only the stars knew the winner.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He did not remember exactly when the idea of killing Hervey occurredto him. Probably, though, it had been that day at Hermes Station, whenthe wrench had slipped from his grasp as he worked on the tower; it haddrifted lightly down and struck Hervey a glancing blow on the helmet.They had laughed about it, and Hervey had said, "If we were under gravconditions, Joe, that probably would have conked me."
It had been funny then, but it wasn't funny any more. Joe Berne watchedHervey all of the time now, waiting. There had to be an opportunity,some day, some time. Accidents weren't frequent on the beaconservice-run, but they did happen. And it had to look like an accident.
Berne knew that it wasn't going to be easy. Sam Hervey was a careful,cautious man. He was a man who checked his equipment before he wentthrough the air lock, who nursed his jets like they were infants, aman who had every intention of living a long life in a dirty businesswhere the careless died young. Berne had been glad when Space Servicehad teamed him with Hervey; Personnel had clearly hoped that a tour ofduty with the veteran Hervey would supply the balance and judgment thatthe younger man apparently lacked. It had worked out ... Berne, Herveyand battered old Service Ship 114 had hung up an enviable record ofefficiency and safety. And after their leave, Hervey had asked to workwith Berne on another tour.
Hervey was good at this damned, dull, hateful task. Not many men werewilling to spend nine months out of the year blasting from asteroid toasteroid, checking and servicing and reporting on the great beaconsthat beamed the dangerous spaceway from Mars to the moons of Jupiter.It was always tedious, often backbreaking and sometimes dangerous, andeven Sam Hervey had said that he would be glad to be out of it.
That had been the start of it, three months before. The wheezing oldSS-114 had burned out two of her ancient aft tubes on the run to AdonisStation, and Berne had eased her down on a jagged, unnamed chunk ofblack slag where they could jury-rig new lining. In between spells onthe tube, they had looked over the tiny planetoid, and on one of theirtrips across the space-scarred waste their Cannon counters had begunto tick ominously. They had fled back to the ship; the rapidity of thesignals warned them that volume of radioactivity was far greater thaneven their screened space-garb was designed to withstand.
Berne had rubbed his hands gleefully that day.
"It has to be a damned big deposit to set up radiation like that," hehad chortled, and Sam Hervey, after due deliberation, had agreed withhim. They had started to make their plans then; they would pool theirfunds, buy a small ship on Mars, rig it up with equipment, and work thedeposit. Even if it weren't as big as they hoped, it would set them upfor life.
"It won't be easy, Joe," Hervey had warned. "Even with everything we'vegot in the bank, plus what we can borrow, we can't swing the deal. Ifwe sign up with the Service for another trip, the six thousand creditswe'll bank from that will do it."
Berne had argued with that. He could see no point in another tour,another nine months in the lonely wastes. Maybe they could cut in oneof the big mining companies. Hervey had smiled at him commiseratingly.
"Let's look at the long haul, kid