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The Chalice of Circe
By Willard Hawkins
The Chalice was a symbol of beauty—but like its
namesake, evil would plague the owner...
GERDLU of Callisto bared his fangs in what was intended to be an ingratiating smile. A less experienced receptionist and secretary than Mary Dugan would have fainted at mere sight of the spider-man, with his chitinous body suspended from six, many-jointed legs; but Mary had been connected with Interplanetary Expositions, Inc., long enough to take them as they came.
"Both Mr. Lane and Mr. Pendergast are out of the city," she responded to his inquiry. "Mr. Lane has gone to Venus and Mr. Pender—"
The Callistan's solitary faceted eye seemed to expand—to occupy all space with its dizzying red-orange light. A moment later, Mary Dugan was staring straight ahead and saying in a mechanical voice:
"Mr. Lane is out on the fair office, third door right. Vibration ninety-five point six."
The spider-man glided swiftly to the door indicated. With a deft claw, he set his vibration dial at the prescribed wave length and the door noiselessly opened.
A short bald-headed man who had been industriously figuring at his desk leaped to his feet in panic.
"Wh-what do you want?" he gasped. "Who let you—?"
The ingratiating grimace was repeated. In his rasping voice, Gerdlu explained, "The Callistan delegation wishes assurance that the forthcoming contest will be conducted with fairness. They will consider it an insult if their candidate is slighted by the judges. They wish to make clear—"
He was jostled by Mary Dugan, who burst into the room, eyes ablaze, every inch of her trim figure, clad in its abbreviated costume of the day, expressing fury.
"Mr. Pendergast, this phony pulled a hypnotic on me! I told him you and Mr. Lane were out—and then he glittered that nasty red eye of his and the first I knew I'd spilled everything. If that's the way they're trying to win the beauty contest—"
Pendergast struggled to master his nervousness.
"That's right—that's right," he blustered, "Won't do to use hypnotic influence on the judges, Mr. Grr—Grr—"
"Gerdlu," supplied the spider-man.
"Er—yes, certainly. At any rate, tell your delegation that the judging will be strictly impartial."
"That is gratifying. In that case, hypnotic suggestion will not be required. The Callistans have confidence in their candidate. They wish to know, however, what standards of beauty will be employed. It would be unfortunate if terrestrial standards—"
Pendergast drew himself pompously to his full height. "The rules definitely state that abstract standards are to prevail."
The Callistan bobbed in what probably was his version of a courtly bow. Nevertheless, his tone was quietly menacing.
"That assurance will be taken back to my delegation. They would be much disappointed if standards unfair to their candidate should force them to return without the winner's cup."
HE WITHDREW, while Pendergast sank into his chair, wiping a moist brow. Godfrey Lane found him thus, with Mary Dugan vigorously expounding her opinion of alien planet creatures, and spider-men in particular, when he breezed in a few minutes later.
"Godfrey," blurted Pendergast, at the appearance of his partner, "why can't we drop the whole thing?"
"Drop what thing?" "Don't play innocent. Your bright ideas have gotten us into a lot of messes; but this interplanetary beauty contest beats all the rest for pure, unadulterated grief."
Lane tossed his cap and watched with satisfaction as it settled at a rakish angle on a bust on his partner's desk.
"One of those Callistan freaks was here," Mary explained, "It seems Callistans take their beauty contests seriously. It will be a great disappointment if they have to go back without the cup. So great that they might feel tempted to do something unpleasant about it."
"They all take it seriously," moaned Pendergast. "Who do you think the latest entry is from? The turtle-people of Ganymede. They actually think some chunk of gristle from their race is a sure winner."
"Fine!" enthused Lane. "The more the better."
"You're missing the point. Don't you see, Godfrey, whoever wins the contest, all the rest are going to be sure it was a frame-up against their queen? We'll have sixty-seven kinds of interplanetary trouble right here on the fair grounds."
"No fooling," cut in Mary. "This beauty contest idea of yours is just a little too hot."
"You too, Mary!" he said, in mock dejection. "Just when I'm ready to spring my latest and best idea."
"Is this one colossal or merely stupendous?"
"Well may you ask! It's super-colossal. Ever hear of the Bluebird?"
"There's some kind of an ancient legend—" "Right you are. Popular around the twentieth century. It tells how a couple of kids went all over the known and unknown world searching for something, only to discover it in their own back yard."
"Which has nothing to do with the subject." "No? How about this angle? Right now, Interplanetary Expositions, Inc., is searching throughout the world and its colonies to locate Miss Terrestrial—the most beautiful female of the human species. We carry this search right up to the final contest. Excitement rises to fever heat. And who do you suppose wins?"
"Who?" demanded Pendergast, hypnotized by his partner's eloquence.
"None other than a home-town gal hailing from Luna City—our own offices, mind you! Yes, our own little Mary. All the time we've been searching the universe for its outstanding beauty, she's been working right under our noses—blind creatures that we are! If that isn't bringing the Bluebird up to date, I don't know a publicity gag when I see one."
In spite of himself, Pendergast was impressed. "Godfrey," he exclaimed, "it's immense."
"With only one flaw," added the girl laconically. "Little Mary won't play."
"When you have a chance to become the outstanding—"
"I know! I know! Well, in the first place, I couldn't hold a candle to some of those glamour girls you'll be importing."
"You don't know the miracles our makeup department can perform," protested Lane. "I've seem them take even homelier wenches than you and make 'em positively gorgeous."
"Mary's a damned pretty girl," defended Pendergast loyally.
"In the second place," continued the girl, "I've no desire to be torn to pieces when the big event comes off and those assorted spider gals and elephant venuses and scorpion dames make up their minds they've been double-crossed out of the decision."
Lane raised his eyebrows mockingly. "So you're going to win the finals too! Modest little Mary!"
"Whoever wins, I don't hanker to be around at the pay-off."
"I've already entered your name." "Then you can withdraw it. And if you aren't too stiff-necked to take a tip—better call the whole thing off."
BUT THIS was a late day to think of calling the contest off. Far-flung publicity had started the ball rolling, and the results had astonished Lane, despite his unblushing admission that the idea was one of the most marvelous ever hatched from his prolific brain. Already it was pulling the Interplanetary Exposition, now in its third year under the great dome of Luna City, out of the red.
The team of Pendergast and Lane, promoters of the exposition, ought to have been full of rejoicing. Instead, Al Pendergast, senior member, was being rapidly reduced to a nervous wreck, while even Godfrey Lane's youthful assurance at times rang hollow.
Gerdlu's visit, with its implied threat, was merely one of several incidents carrying ominous portent.
The Plutonian delegation served notice that the five precepts of beauty formulated by their revered prophet, Dooveroo, must be adopted in toto as a basis of judgment—or else! The precepts to the average terrestrial seemed to have nothing to do with beauty. In any event, none but a Plutonian could be considered eligible according to these precepts.
A bright particular problem was introduced when the government of Ceres sent an envoy to inquire into the meaning of the provision that "any feminine member of the race" could be entered in the contest. They reminded the promoters that sex was unknown on Ceres, where the dominant life- forms multiplied by the vastly superior method of fission. Was this intended as a slap at the Ceresians?
The envoy was mollified with an amendment which provided that races not divided into sexes might select a representative according to standards of their own devising.
Whereas the inhabitants of Titan presented a petition for further change in the rules. "It is well known that the females of Titan make no claims to beauty, while the neuters of this race out-shine the most beautiful creatures of all planets. By the rules, they are barred from participating. Such unfriendly discrimination cannot be tolerated. We respectfully suggest that the Terrestrial government amend the rules to avoid such unfairness."
It was this communication that brought Lieutenant Compton of the Interplanetary Police to the offices of Pendergast and Lane.
"What's the idea?" demanded the junior partner. "I thought Al and I were running this contest."
"Private enterprise isn't understood by these totalitarian planets," responded Compton grimly. "To them, anything undertaken by earthmen is sponsored by Earth. At that, it looks to me as if the I.P. must have been asleep when it let you spring this."
"Tell the I.P. to keep its shirt on," retorted Lane, disrespectfully. "This is just a little publicity stunt—one of the oldest in the archives of promotion. As for Titan's trifling complaint, we'll interpret the rules to satisfy them."
"Couldn't the I.P. issue an order canceling the contest?" piped Al Pendergast quaveringly. "That way they couldn't blame us—"
"No, but they'd blame the I.P.," retorted Compton. "Most of the delegations are either here now or on their way. They'd jump at the conclusion that the contest was called off to keep their particular glamour queen from winning."
"Sure," agreed Lane. "That's what I've been telling Al. Nothing for it now but to face the music."
Compton shook his head glumly. "It's crazy—the very thing that ought to be avoided— bringing all these jealous races together. Anything may happen. How are you going to judge such a contest, anyway?"
"We'll employ abstract standards," was Lane's airy reply.
"Who's going to employ them? Do you mean to say you can look at an aquatic Venusian and put out of mind the fact that to you she resembles a particularly loathsome variety of squid? If you were a Callistan, could you regard a terrestrial cutie as anything more attractive than a grub? Abstract standards, my eye!"
"I'm working on a plan," Lane assured him. Compton was unimpressed. "I've sent for reinforcements. We'll try to prepare for emergencies—that's all there is left to do."
TWO DAYS—earth time—before the preliminary contest for the selection of Miss Terrestrial, Lane again broached the subject of entering to Mary Dugan. So definite was her refusal that the word "flat" fails to describe it.
"You're missing the opportunity of a lifetime."
"To be made into hash," she amended.
"You exaggerate."
"How about the Venusian squid and that sting-ray thing from Deimos?"
To this parting shot, he had no answer. She alluded to a "regrettable incident", as Lane described it for the benefit of the news services. The two beauty contestants from Venus and one of its moons had been accorded quarters opening into the same transparent tank in the exposition's huge "Temple of Beauty". It was an error of judgment. When the battle was over, what was left of the contestants could not have been termed beautiful, even by members of their own races.
The affair was annoying from many standpoints. Previous publicity had centered on the glamour and gayety of the contest. News of this tragic incident gave a hint of its underlying menace.
The partners spent hours ironing matters out with the offended governments. Each faction left clear implication that the one way of avoiding enormous damage suits, and possible interplanetary trouble, was to insure that the beauty award would go to its representative in the contest—for of course both sent fresh entrants to replace the martyred queens who had done each other in.
"What gets me," Mary complained to Lane, "is that not one delegation thinks the affair is on the level. They're all scheming to pull a fast one—like hypnotizing the judges, or scaring the daylights out of them. Which reminds me. You still haven't disclosed how you're going to decide the main contest."
"I've got a lulu of a scheme figured out," he assured her, "Passes the buck in truly magnificent style, Mary—" he looked at her hopefully—"as a very special favor, won't you please—?"
"The answer again is no!"
He shook his head reproachfully. "I was merely going to ask you, as a special favor, when you come over to help below stage tomorrow, if you'll wear that tricky little costume of yours with the red trunks and silver-trimmed upper dingus."
"Why?" "Because it helps me to concentrate." She stared after him blankly as he walked away. Despite the fact that she had worked for him some three years, Lane still had the faculty of disconcerting her with his whimsies.
An amphitheater accommodating a million people—this had been one of Godfrey Lane's dreams, and in the great Luna Coliseum he had come within striking distance of achieving it. The problems involved were tremendous, but modern architectural science had been equal to them. Over a thousand tube entrances, some located a mile distant from the dazzling, many-faceted structure which towered like an iridescent monument over the exposition grounds, served to convey visitors to their sections without congestion at any point.
The audience looked down upon a central stage which, by a triumph of refractive engineering, seemed directly in front of each section. Ingenious sound amplification made every spoken word audible.
Sections were equipped to provide for the idiosyncrasies of the various planetary races. Tubes conveying aquatic creatures deposited them through air locks into tank-like sections filled with the fluid of their natural habitat. Similar compartments were filled with the various native atmospheres.
WHILE THE great edifice filled for the terrestrial beauty contest, in which the earth entry—Miss Terrestrial—would be chosen for the finals, Lane and his technicians were hard at work backstage. "Backstage", in this instance, meant below, since the stage effects were handled from a honeycomb of rooms and passages underneath.
When necessary, any section of the stage could be screened from view of the audience by refractive screens. Thus, while one spectacle was in progress, another might be in preparation on the seemingly unoccupied portion of the same stage.
Of all the staff, Lane was on the least tension, as far as surface appearances indicated. In a veritable bedlam, with press agents, delegation representatives, and newscasters bombarding him every minute with demands and questions; with scantily clad girl contestants and their maids running here and there on frenzied missions, he appeared calmly unconcerned.
To Al Pendergast had been delegated the comparatively peaceful task of sitting with the judges, who were even now self-consciously surveying the audience from a box at the stage rim.
When Mary Dugan responded to a hurry call from Lane, she found him engaged in testing some flood-lighting equipment. He motioned her to a dapper little man in white whom she recognized as Fleury from the makeup department.
"Sit down please." Fleury regarded her closely as she obeyed. "First we apply the base cream." He demonstrated with deft fingers. "Then the cheeks—a delicate tint. Shaded just right— so!"
"Wait a minute!" Mary protested. "What is this?"
"I want to test the lighting with actual makeup," Lane explained. He turned to the electrician. "Intensify the gamma ray. See what it docs?"
"Makes her look faded." "Exactly. Now some more of the delta." Eventually, he seemed to get the light to suit him. Fleury stepped back and admired his handiwork.
"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "A remarkable treatment, if I do say it. What fortunate region does the young lady represent?"
"You've got your wires crossed," Mary informed him acidly.
Lane chuckled. "She's not a contender—just our handy girl."
Mary flushed under his frankly admiring gaze. "I wore my silver-and-red, as you asked, so you could concentrate," she observed sharply. "I didn't know you meant concentrating on my costume."
As she spoke, the electrician pushed aside the light-blending projector, so that they could look into the wall screen. At his touch on the switch, the screen became a front-row seat looking out on the stage.
"It's already going on!" exclaimed Mary. Against a velvety-black background, a striking-looking blonde was walking with stately tread, to the accompaniment of soft music, toward the judges' box. When almost there, she paused and pirouetted slowly, exhibiting her figure from all angles, then, after a moment's self-conscious pause beneath the eyes of the half-million or more spectators, she walked down a short ramp, handed a slip of paper containing her identification number to the judges' clerk, and disappeared from view through a velvet curtain.
The clerk read the number aloud, "Fifty- four." At the same moment, a huge crystal ball, high above the stage, flashed the number in letters of light, following with the designation of the entrant, "Miss Southern Hemisphere."
For an instant, the stage was black. There was a hush of expectancy. Then a spot of light focused on a point near the center, where the glamour girl next in line had suddenly appeared. In the moment of darkness, she had been transported from below stage to a slowly revolving platform. As the platform came to rest after a single revolution, she descended, to parade across the stage as her predecessor had done.
"Nice figure," commented Mary, "but—" she hesitated.
"Coloring too pasty," volunteered the electrician. "This next number isn't so hot, either. If these are the best Earth can produce—"
They watched three or four others cross the stage, then Lane scribbled something on a slip of paper.
"I've got to get hold of Al," he said hastily. He glanced toward the judges' box, where his partner sat perspiring between two of the judging staff. "No way to reach him by visiphone, we purposely didn't install them in the judges' box to avoid possibility of outside influence. Take him this note for me, will you?"
"What's the idea?" Mary asked, vaguely distrustful.
"I've had another inspiration. While the judges are making their decision, we're going to levitate the cup that will be awarded at the interplanetary contest two weeks from now—let the crowd feast their eyes on it. I want Al to make a little announcement. We'll call it the Chalice of Circe."
"The what?" "Circe was a beautiful siren of mythology. The chalice was the cup she used to drink out of— or to serve ambrosia to her lovers—something like that."
"You've got your mythology mixed," objected Mary. "As I remember—"
"Doesn't matter. No time to argue. Take this note to Al." He folded it hastily and thrust it into Mary's hand, then hustled her down the corridor to one of the stage traps.
Mary stepped into the round enclosed booth, clutching at the slender hand support. She experienced a brief moment of giddiness as the floor began to rise—then was enveloped in total darkness.
BY THE slight click and sensation of stopping, Mary knew that the segment of platform on which she stood had become part of the vast stage. The darkness was complete, except for one spot of light far ahead of her, in which a sinuous figure— limbs and scanty jeweled costume flashing—was walking in time with the slow music toward the judges' box.
With a gasp of dismay, Mary realized that she had come up near the middle of the stage. The next instant, she was bathed in a dazzling floodlight.
She checked an impulse to run, for fear of attracting more attention. The floor began to revolve.
In spite of its appalling aspects, the situation was absurd. Whoever was directing the lighting effects no doubt assumed that another glamour girl had presented herself for that tiresome across- stage parade.
The least conspicuous thing she could do was to walk nonchalantly to the judges' box, deliver her message, and disappear. The audience would think she was another contestant, while the note would explain her presence to the judges.
The slow music insensibly delayed her footsteps as she descended from the platform and, with head held high, walked toward the pencil of light that indicated her destination. She could sense—even if she could barely see—the huge audience, the vast open space beneath the central dome in which she, a tiny figure, walked under the critical view of more than a half-million eyes.
"All the thrill of being in the contest, without the glory!" she reflected. A moment later, she was passing the note crumpled in her palm to the clerk at the front of the judges' stand.
"For Mr. Pendergast," she murmured, then hurriedly sought the comforting concealment of the black curtain.
Through an excited concourse of contestants and their retinues, Mary shouldered her way to the testing room where she found Lane and the electrician still at the viewing screen.
"You inconsiderate louse!" she choked. "I believe you did it on purpose. If that's your idea of a joke—!"
"Hold everything!" Lane admonished. "The judges are going to announce their decision."
"Didn't take 'em long," breathed the electrician.
Restraining herself for the moment, Mary watched the screen. Tyrone Hopwood, the world's premier producer of television spectacles, was rising to his feet in the judges' box.
"Friends, lovers of beauty, you of the vast audience in this building, to say nothing of the millions who have enjoyed this spectacle by television," he began pompously. Mary's attention wandered, to be recalled as he concluded impressively:
"And now to end your suspense. The judges' task was rendered easy when, among all the lovely contestants who crossed in review, there appeared one who so far outshone the rest that there could be no dissenting opinion. It seems superfluous to inform the audience that this outstanding contestant was—" he paused to consult the slip of paper in his hands—"number seventy-eight, the duly entered candidate from Luna City—Miss Mary Dugan."
Then the applause broke loose.
GODFREY LANE turned to Mary with a sheepish grin. She was staring open-mouthed at the television screen. There was a confusion of voices and running feet in the corridor. The door burst open and some one shouted, "Here she is!" Then the room was swarming with news correspondents.
They shouted questions, pushed the bewildered girl into impromptu poses, held recording instruments to her lips, flashed her features on millions of news screens as she uttered gasping protests.
Off at one side, Lane was pouring his version of the occurrence into willing ears.
"I'm flabbergasted," he declared. "Never occurred to us that she'd have the ghost of a chance against those glorious contestants from Earth and elsewhere. You know—that reminds me—"
"Yes! Go on, Mr. Lane," prompted one of the newscasters.
"Well, it reminds me somehow of an old legend. Something about a bluebird. Look it up, boys—that's a tip—if you want something for your headlines."
Mary at length managed to slip unobserved into a tube car which transferred her to the deserted offices in the administration building. She wanted to be alone—to think—to recover some measure of her poise—to be very sure of her determination. Her apartment would no doubt be surrounded by newscasters. They hadn't thought of waiting for her here.
She paused before a restroom mirror and gazed at herself unbelievingly. Her chic silver- and-red costume was fetching; her features and coloring were good; her figure, with arms and legs bare in the accepted fashion of the day, was trim and neat.
"I'm good," she acknowledged impartially, "Yeah—but not that good. There's something fishy about it all. And what I'll tell Godfrey Lane—"
On second thought, she decided to tell him by letter. When the stinging resignation was framed to her satisfaction, she strode into his office. It was disconcerting to find him at his desk.
"Oh, it's you!" he said in evident relief, putting down the visiphone into which he had been talking.
Her fury flamed into expression.
"I carne to leave this on your desk; but I've a lot to tell you in person. Of all the scurvy tricks! And I fell for it. 'Wear that silver-red costume—it helps me to concentrate.' 'I want to test the lighting effect on makeup.' 'Take this note to Al—you only have to walk up to the judges' stand.' Yes, I fell for it. But you outsmarted yourself, boss. Little Mary still isn't going to play. I don't know how you did it—aside from the trick you played on me—but there's something cheesy about the whole affair."
Lane had the grace to wilt under the barrage. "Gosh, Mary. Any other girl would give twenty years of her life to be in your sandals today."
"I don't like being played for a sap. By the way, how did you put it over? Bribe the judges?"
"Perhaps I can answer that question." Mary whirled sharply at the suave voice that came from the open doorway behind her. A swarthy-skinned earthman in the para-fiber garb of the Martian settlements was smiling sardonically.
"This is a private conference," Lane informed him.
"I agree. It is private—between the two of us," the stranger observed with self-assurance. "However, the young lady may stay if she likes. Let me introduce myself. I am Vittorio Renoud, of the Martian Metropolitan. Also of the delegation which accompanied the unsuccessful candidate from the Martian earth settlement."
"I'm sorry your candidate didn't win, Mr. Renoud; but—"
"You mistake my purpose. The reason I came to Luna City—I shall be entirely frank with you— was to ferret out, if possible, certain secrets of light diffusion developed by your technicians."
"Others have tried to steal our secrets," Lane informed him tersely. "You'll discover little, for all your spying."
"It will not be necessary to spy, Mr. Lane, since I expect you to turn those secrets over to me of your own accord. Or—" he paused deliberately—"would you rather have me make public a peculiar fact concerning today's lighting arrangements?"
Mary watched Lane's face go pale. He turned abruptly to request, "Mary, see if you can locate Al. Tell him I want him here. Then go get some rest. I'm sorry about everything."
She started for the door panel, then hesitated. "You had me deliver another message to Al today," she said. "That was a trick. What is it this time?"
"Please, Mary."
She studied him shrewdly. "Couldn't be that you're trying to get rid of me?"
"As your employer, I insist—" "My resignation is on your desk, so I'm no longer an employee. What was the peculiar fact you discovered, Mr. Renoud?"
The Mars dweller had been watching the byplay with appreciation.
"It was this," he said slowly. "Although your technicians employed what appeared to be the same light in the dressing rooms as on the stage, the quality of makeup was altered materially under the stage lights."
"Bunk!" retorted Lane tersely.
"Unfortunately," smiled Renoud, "our tests clearly reveal the difference. How it was accomplished we do not know; but of the result there is no doubt. Makeup applied under the dressing-room lights appeared faded under the stage lights. The young ladies did not look their best—most decidedly far from it. By a peculiar circumstance, only one contestant was so fortunate as to have her makeup applied under the lighting which was actually used on the stage."
He bowed sardonically toward Mary. "As the eloquent spokesman for the judges remarked in my hearing, it was like gazing upon the sun's brilliance after comparing the radiance of a succession of pale moons."
White and rigid Mary stood, her hands clenched into fists. Then, covering her face, she stumbled from the room.
TO ALL the importunities of press and television news services, the answer given by the harassed staff of Interplanetary Expositions was the same: "Miss Dugan is unable to see any one."
Forced into a corner, Al Pendergast finally blurted out the truth. "We don't know where she is. She's disappeared."
After that, Godfrey Lane, looking hollow- eyed and worried, yielded to the inevitable and gave the newscasters an audience.
"Boys," he said, "I'd have told you before, but I knew you wouldn't believe me. We're completely at sea. I've had an army of detectives on the job. No results."
"Pretty thin, Godfrey," observed the correspondent for Terrestrial Broadcasters. "It's a publicity stunt, of course; but in a place like Luna City, with every space-port and lock guarded—"
"I know," responded Lane shortly. "Nevertheless, it's true. I'm posting a reward for information leading to her discovery."
"And won't you be surprised," some one jeered, "when she unexpectedly turns up on the day of the big contest!"
IN HER narrow quarters within the Callistan space vessel, Mary Dugan tuned in on the latest broadcast involving her disappearance.
"...has increased the reward for information leading to discovery of her whereabouts to this fabulous amount," the commentator was saying. "He also advanced a fantastic motive for the young woman's disappearance. Lane's story is that she objected to entering the contest and appeared against her will. This, ladies and gentlemen of the television audience, is obvious press-agent stuff. It is hardly reasonable that any girl would resent winning so high an honor as that of Earth's reigning beauty, or that she could be tricked into entering a contest against her will. Also, it must be remembered that no one could leave Luna City without passing through a series of closely guarded space locks—and Mary Dugan most certainly passed through none of them."
The girl switched off the voice. She wanted to think.
There was no hint that Lane, or any one else, suspected the manner of her abduction. Lane had every reason to think she was doing an exceptionally clever job of hiding out. Her note of resignation was conclusive evidence on that point. "No use trying to find me—because I'll be hiding where you'd never think to look."
It had been an empty boast. At the moment of writing, she had no thought of how to carry it out. But Gerdlu of Callisto had made the boast a reality by appearing suddenly and focusing that big red eye upon her. She dimly remembered following him.
Three successive guards whom they passed no doubt had assured Lane and detectives that no Mary Dugan escaped through the locks. Their sincerity must have been convincing. They did not see her when she passed because Gerdlu hypnotically commanded them not to see her. Once outside, they had entered his space tender and come directly to the Callistan vessel.
The possibility that hypnosis might have been employed in abducting Mary had, it is true, passed fleetingly through Lane's mind. But it was merely one of various fantastic theories which battled for recognition—all of which became meaningless in view of her expressed intention to vanish of her own accord.
With the day of the great inter-planetary contest almost at hand, he had enough to occupy his attention without stewing over Mary's fate. But this did not deter him from doing a man-sized job of worrying.
The zest seemed to have gone out of the whole undertaking, as far as he was concerned. He left important details to Al Pendergast, who was muddling them beyond imagining.
"How are we going to get out of this mess?" he wailed, appealing to Lane. "I had to promise that we'd disqualify any candidate who couldn't show Grade D intelligence, and now the Turlocks of Pluto are raising Cain. Claim the rule was invoked against them. And blast me if I don't suspect that it was. Those Turlock females are gorgeous in coloring—graceful, too. But they're without any intelligence at all. The males have all the brains. Another thing—"
"Go on," Lane told him wearily. "A lot of them are kicking about your big idea—having one member of each contesting race on the jury."
"What's the matter with that?" "It means, each number will get one vote— from her home-planet judge. It's the same as having each contestant vote for herself."
"Ah, but you overlook the big thing!" For a moment, Lane was almost his enthusiastic self. "Each judge is compelled to cast a second-choice vote for a different candidate. The second-choice votes decide the contest."
"News commentators say it means that the ugliest will win. To give their candidate a better chance, each of these judges is going to cast his second vote for the creature he rates lowest."
"That's their lookout," commented Lane. "If any one has a better idea, I'm receptive."
THE ANNOUNCEMENT had no doubt been a shock to many of the delegations who had counted upon having a small group of judges to terrorize, bribe, or otherwise influence. Several objected to including a Callistan on the jury, on the ground that so many races were subject to hypnotic control. Lane met this objection by building a separate turret for the Callistan judge, locating it well back of the main crescent of judges' booths.
Gerdlu took no offense at this evidence of distrust. He seemed, in fact, more amiable as the contest day drew near.
Encountering Lane on the fair grounds, he chided, "You are thinking of the one you call Mary. No word as yet?"
"None. Gerdlu, with the science your race is said to possess, you ought to be able to help me."
The Callistan chuckled appreciatively. "You overrate our abilities. Still, we do have, in our space vessel, an instrument which in your language might be translated as a 'locator'. Its scope is somewhat limited."
At Lane's sudden show of interest, the Callistan explained further. The instrument could be so attuned as to indicate the direction in which a specific metal was located. It was used to locate rare mineral deposits.
"Something like an ancient doodlebug," commented Lane. "I don't see—" he paused, recalling that Mary possessed a wrist-band of flexible Ionian murrinite, on which her watch and vibration dials were mounted. The Ionian ambassador, who presented it to her, had declared that it was probably the only bit of that metal worn on the moon.
"It is worth a trial," Gerdlu agreed, when Lane offered the suggestion. "We can readily attune the instrument to that substance. If you wish to accompany me to our vessel—"
Lane accepted eagerly. However, before accompanying the Callistan, he took the precaution of informing Lieutenant Compton of his purpose, "Never trust a Callistan" was a familiar byword.
It was morning on Luna's earth-side hemisphere, and the great surrounding plain was jammed with spacecraft of all types. Gerdlu's ship, however, was swinging in an orbit overhead and it was necessary to reach it by a small tender.
Inside of the Callistan vessel, Lane glanced curiously around the unfamiliar control room.
Gerdlu carelessly pointed to a cased-in device. "The instrument I spoke of," he observed. "However, we shall waste no time employing its aid. Step into the observation room and I will show you something much better, I'm sure you'll agree."
With a definite sense of alarm, Lane entered the narrow cubicle indicated. The click of the door panel brought him around sharply. Gerdlu had not entered with him.
"What's all this?" Lane demanded harshly. The Callistan's visage flashed on one of the several view-plates. "Now, Mr. Lane," said his rasping voice, "we will come to terms."
"Then this was a trick? I'm your prisoner?"
"Only temporarily, Mr. Lane. I am certain you will be reasonable."
THERE CAME to Lane the spine-pricking realization that he was wholly in the power of this spider-man. In his eagerness to follow every lead, no matter how forlorn, that might lead to Mary, he had walked into a trap.
Still, the Callistan knew he had left word where be was going, and why. Gerdlu would hardly dare to injure him or to detain him indefinitely in the face of that.
"What do you want?" Lane demanded shortly.
"Need I state, Mr. Lane? We Callistans are proud. We do not wish to be outclassed. It is a coveted honor of my people to be acknowledged the most beautiful in the solar system."
"I'm not judging the contest." "But you arranged—shall we say by a trick of lighting—to favor your entrant in the terrestrial contest."
"Light effects won't help in the interplanetary contest."
"Perhaps not. There is a method, however, which will insure the beauty from Callisto winning the cup to which she is entitled."
"Whatever you have in mind, the answer is no. It's no secret that I'm here in your company. If I'm not back in reasonable time, the I.P. will take a hand. I'm sure you wouldn't care to have Callisto suspended from the International Planetary Federation because of your blundering, Gerdlu."
The Callistan seemed undisturbed. "A peculiar fact we have learned about human psychology is that you people are handicapped by the phenomena you call emotions. This seems to be especially the case when the emotion you call love is involved."
As he spoke, a second viewplate flashed into illumination. As if looking through a window, Lane saw Mary Dugan listlessly resting on a couch in a small, cell-like chamber.
"She's here! You've had her all the time!" Gerdlu chuckled sardonically. "Now let us have some fun. We Callistans are a very humorous race."
As Lane stared apprehensively, a tiny thread of light flashed across the room, flicking Mary's bare arm. She sprang up as if something had stung her, looking around in bewilderment.
Another sliver of light darted forth, touching her cheek. She dodged away, only to meet another crossing thread.
"Ionised light beams," explained Gerdlu, "carrying an electric current. Watch as we increase the intensity."
Suddenly the room was crossed in every direction with the slivers of light, looking like strands of flashing cobweb. The girl sprang this way and that, bewilderedly trying to evade the sting of contact. Abruptly the auditory accompaniment of the viewscreen flashed on, and scream after scream of pain and terror reached the horrified ears of the watcher.
"Stop it! Stop it!" roared Lane, beating impotently on the Callistan's viewplate with doubled fists.
At once, the darting cobwebs of light vanished. The girl stumbled to her cot and threw herself down, sobbing convulsively.
"A strange phenomenon," commented Gerdlu's voice. "You would have been capable of standing much greater torture, yourself, yet you are unnerved merely by another's suffering."
"Curse you, Gerdlu! Curse you and all your heartless race!"
The Callistan chuckled. "Do you wish a further demonstration, or shall we reach an agreement now?"
"What agreement?" demanded Lane belligerently.
The viewplate revealing Mary's room was suddenly criss-crossed again with flashing lights. Again the girl was darting around the cramped space, her features contorted with agony.
"Stop!" cried Lane. "I agree!"
Gerdlu emitted his unpleasant chuckle as the viewplate cleared and Mary sank quivering to the floor.
"She will sustain no harm," he observed.
"Not a mark will show. It requires more than two hours for the treatment to cause death. I hope such extreme action will not be required."
Lane fumed at his helplessness. "Tell me what you expect."
"The young lady will be kept here as a hostage until the contest. You and I will return to Luna City. If you should become unfriendly—if you refuse to carry out my suggestions—members of my delegation still quartered in the vessel will take great pleasure in administering the needle death to the one about whom you are so concerned."
Lane answered with cold fury, "Gerdlu, you and your tribe ought to be wiped out of the solar system! If ever ruthless extermination was justified—"
"Perhaps," the Callistan interjected softly, "you wish another demonstration."
"No. I'll play along. Only, once you've attained your purpose, how do I know you'll let her go?"
"You have my promise." "The word of a Callistan!"
"To employ one of your racial idioms, take it or leave it. After all, Mr. Lane, if we failed to keep our agreement, what reason would you have for keeping quiet about this afterward?"
"What makes you think I'll keep quiet anyway?"
"I hardly think, Mr. Lane, that you would be eager to proclaim that your contest was not conducted—as you say—on the level."
The Callistan seemed to have figured out all the angles.
"Very well," Lane conceded. "But I warn you, if Mary Dugan isn't safely back within an hour after the contest is decided, I'll expose the whole business, regardless of personal consequences. You can guess," he added grimly, "what that would mean."
"We should be torn to pieces," agreed Gerdlu. "So it is plain that my promise will be kept. Shall we return?"
ALTHOUGH Luna Coliseum accommodated more than half a million, seating capacity for the Interplanetary Beauty Contest was woefully inadequate. All tickets of admission had been sold weeks before the event. As the time drew close, fantastic prices were offered to the fortunate holders of seats.
True, the scene was being televised to every part of the solar system; but merely witnessing it from an easy chair on some distant planet lacked the thrill of being part of the spectacle.
The matter of precedence and delicate apportionment of space among the twenty-odd planetary delegations was a problem in itself. Al Pendergast was on the verge of collapse as a result of toiling to satisfy everyone. More than ever, he missed the efficient assistance of Mary Dugan.
While the semi-circle of booths at the edge of the stage was slowly filling with the judges entrusted with representing their planetary groups, the audience was being treated to various forms of aesthetic entertainment. Enormous ingenuity had been exercised to insure each race its preferred brand. The earth section listened to the strains of a symphony orchestra. The aquatic Venusian creatures witnessed a vivid color-graph display. The Callistans thrilled to an atrocious cacophony that would have driven an earth audience crazy. Although, to each section of the audience, the entertainment seemed to come from the stage, in actuality most of it was projected through screens and amplifying devices.
From the subterranean control room, Lane and Pendergast could view any selected part of the coliseum by visiscreen.
Although his practiced eye took note of anything, and he mechanically dispatched instructions to various members of the staff, the undercurrent of Lane's thoughts was anxiety for Mary. Would the Callistan make good his promise? If not, what then? Merely the empty satisfaction of striking back.
The schedule was proceeding inexorably. Already, below stage, "the beauty queens were ascending their pedestals or entering their floats. Some—as in case of the Ganymedan turtle woman—were being hoisted into theirs by derricks. Others were being transferred through locks into transparent globes. A tiny creature from some asteroid, scarcely six inches high, was encased in a magnifying sphere, which gave her eel-like figure equal prominence with larger entrants.
THROUGH HIS televisor, Lane scanned the long corridor in which these preparations were taking place. He noted with a pang the pedestal around which there was no excited gathering. It bore a shield emblazoned with the legend, "Miss Terrestrial."
"Glad she's out of this mess," he reflected grimly. "But where the devil is she now?" Gerdlu would soon have to make good.
The Callistan's plan for winning the beauty contest was simplicity in itself. He entrusted to Lane a box of medallion-like objects, each apparently nothing more than a Callistan garnet in a platinum-like setting. They could readily, as Gerdlu pointed out, be worked into the decorative scheme of the canopy shading the judges' booths—one to each booth.
"Do you mean that you can extend your hypnotic influence through these—use them as substitute eyes—and compel the other judge's to vote for your candidate?"
"Not all the judges," rasped the spider-man. "Less than half the races are subject to hypnotic influence. However, that should be enough."
Lane's view of the preparations was interrupted by the approach of Lieutenant Compton. The I.P. man looked grim. Without comment, he handed Lane a piece of what looked like a crumbling wafer, with queer characters impressed upon it. The fragment felt peculiarly unsubstantial.
"It's written," Compton explained, answering Lane's inquiring glance, "on eluso-fabric, which evaporates rapidly except in a vacuum. It will vanish in a few minutes."
"The writing seems to be Martian," observed Pendergast, peering at it. "What do they want?"
"It's addressed to the Martian delegation," responded Compton; "but it comes from the Triturians of Mercury. Each delegation received a similar threat, I have no doubt, although Vignu of Mars was the only one with the courage to disclose it to me."
"The Triturians are tough babies," acknowledged Lane.
"Maybe so," defended Pendergast; "but I will say that they've acted pretty decent so far."
"Because," said Compton, "they're smart. They waited until the last minute to shoot their barb. The note merely states that if any except the Triturian candidate is voted the most beautiful, the winner and every delegate from her planet will suffer the energy death."
"Blasting rockets!" gasped the senior partner. The energy death—colloquially known as the firecracker death—was one of the most agonizing known to the solar system. The Mercurians— inheritors of a strange science—possessed a weapon which fired a charge of seemingly pure energy. When it reached its mark, there occurred a strange reaction. Beginning at the outer extremities and darting about through the body of the victim, there occurred a series of explosions. The effect was not unlike the crackling of a bunch of ancient firecrackers. It continued until the body had been torn to shreds.
Though his first impulse was one of horror, Lane's second response was a grim laugh.
"If ever there was retributive justice, this is it," he said harshly. "For once, Gerdlu has outsmarted himself," he observed.
"I doubt if he'll go through with his plan," Compton conjectured. Lane had taken the I.P. man fully into his confidence relative to the deal with the Callistan and Mary's predicament. The officer added. "Better find out how you stand under this new setup."
Lane's scanning of the crowd located Gerdlu in the isolated box reserved for the judge representing his planet. Evidently the spider-man intended to trust no subordinate with the delicate task of carrying out his scheme.
When the message stating that Lane wished to have a word with him was delivered, Gerdlu read, then tore it up. Assuming that he was under visiscreen observation, he spoke distinctly.
"The answer is yes. We of Callisto can take care of ourselves. Our promise has been kept."
Lane turned to Compton in exasperation. "How does he know what I intend to ask him?"
"Well, what do you intend to ask?" "Whether he received one of those threatening messages—and whether it affects Mary."
"So he must have assumed. Well, I admire his nerve."
Compton took his departure.
FLASHING his view-screen to the section devoted to the scorpion-like creatures from Mercury, Lane surveyed the red monsters with distaste. Strategically surrounding the section, he discerned several grim faces which he knew belonged to members of the Interplanetary Police. Compton was at least prepared for trouble.
At a stir of excitement in the audience, he switched to the stage. The widely acclaimed interplanetary pageant of beauty was in progress.
At first the stage was dark. After a moment, a soft glow appeared in the center. As it throbbed into intensity, a huge, exquisitely graven cup was revealed, the famed Chalice of Circe, which would be awarded to the winner of the contest.
Wraith-like lights began to appear on the stage circumference. These likewise waxed insensibly into greater intensity, until the audience found itself gazing at a succession of tableaux. The individual displays, ranging from simple pedestals to elaborate floats, glided around the huge circle, passing slowly in front of the crescent comprising the judges' boxes.
Many of the strange planetary creatures were beautiful even to terrestrial eyes—some for their coloring, some for harmony of form. Lane, his worry overshadowing all else, regarded the display without enthusiasm.
"If I were picking the ugliest of the lot," commented Pendergast, "I'd figure it was a toss- up between the Callistan spider woman and that red demon from Mercury. Yet one of them is sure to win—Hello! Good gosh! Look!"
Following the direction of his partner's gaze, Lane stared in blank unbelief.
"Mary! She's in the contest!" Pendergast produced his handkerchief and agitatedly mopped his perspiring brow.
Speechless, Lane could only stare. Standing on the simple pedestal bearing the legend "Miss Terrestrial," with a bewildered expression on her face as if she had just awakened from a deep sleep, was unquestionably Mary Dugan.
Relief swept over Lane like a refreshing wave. So this was the method Gerdlu had chosen for keeping his bargain.
Well, he had made good his promise. Probably the girl had been smuggled in with the equipment for the elaborate Callistan float— placed on her pedestal while under hypnotic control.
His mind suddenly at rest concerning Mary's safety, the publicity man in Lane rose buoyantly to the surface.
"What a wow of a story this will make!" he exclaimed jubilantly to Pendergast. "Kidnapped by—by mysterious beings of whom she has no memory, Miss Terrestrial electrified the vast audience and found herself unexpectedly restored to safety as the floodlights bathed her glorious figure in the great interplanetary beauty contest. Al, it's a knockout! And if she wins!"
He stopped abruptly.
His partner shook his head. "That wouldn't be so hot. Not with that Mercurian threat—"
"No—I forgot. Anyway, she's safe!" Lane's eyes dwelt upon her as if they could never get their fill. Her makeup hadn't been applied with the skill he would have demanded, but for all that, Mary was a glorious show-piece. The fact that you knew her in her wholesome every-day aspect didn't make her any less glamorous.
SHE HAD the presence of mind to hold her pose. It would have been disastrous, in view of the stage mechanisms involved, if she had tried to leave her pedestal.
The parade of beauty candidates circled the stage twice. Then, guided by technicians deep down in the bowels of the stage, they wove through a graceful pattern which brought them eventually to a stop in a semicircular formation facing the judges.
As if nine-tenths of the terrorized occupants of the judges' circle had not already made up their minds, there was a gesture toward deliberation. At the request of one judge or another, a contestant would be asked to come forward for closer view. The pedestal or flat containing this representative of pulchritude from some far-off world would then glide forward under invisible guidance, while its occupant coyly displayed her charms.
At length came the announcement that voting would commence.
As each judge cast his vote from within his booth, by depressing numbered buttons indicating his first and second choices, verbal announcement was made simultaneously in some seventy different languages, and the numbers flashed into illumination within the crystal ball overhead.
Pendergast and Lane, in the view-room below stage, watched curiously. The initial choice of the first member of the jury was for Number 17, Miss Aquatic Venus. The second choice was for Number 36, Miss Mercury.
"It's a very simple deduction," commented Lane, "that the judge from Aquatic Venus cast that one—the first vote to save his face with the home folks, the second to placate those vengeful Triturians."
The next voter, while according Miss Pluto first place, also gave second place to Number 36.
The third vote was a surprise. It gave Miss Mars first place, but the second choice went to Miss Terrestrial.
"That Martian has guts!" was Lane's comment to his partner. "He not only defied the Mercurians by turning the threat-note over to Compton, but now he's deliberately snubbing their candidate."
Followed another vote for Miss Mercury as second choice. Then three votes in succession for Miss Terrestrial. Lane felt his spine prickling in vague alarm. Something was wrong.
On a sudden he realized what it was. There had been no votes for Miss Callisto!
"Gerdlu must have thrown up the sponge," he muttered. "Still, I don't understand—"
He sprang to his feet with a gasp. All at once he did understand—fully—horribly.
TENSELY, he followed the next tabulations. By the time seventeen judges had been heard from, Miss Mercury was only two ahead of Miss Terrestrial on second-choice votes. Abruptly, then, the character of the voting changed. Miss Terrestrial began to appear as first choice. Immediately followed a succession of first-choice votes for Miss Mercury. The tabulation of fifty- three votes gave Miss Terrestrial twenty first choice votes, Miss Mercury fourteen.
Lane's muscles grew taut.
"Somebody's got it in for Mary," whimpered Pendergast at his elbow. "If she gets the cup, sure as fate those Mercurians will—"
Ignoring him, Lane leaped into action. Brushing his partner aside, he sped down the long corridor to the tube entrances leading to the judges' boxes. As he sprang into the cage of the tube-car leading to the Callistan box, an attendant ran up breathlessly.
"That tube is out of order, Mr. Lane," he explained. "Must have been jammed purposely. I've got a crew working in there."
Lane paused, his mind reviewing the possibilities. He darted into a "prop" room and seized the first object that looked like a weapon— a long-shafted Venusian trident. With this in hand, he stepped into a stage trap-door projector and touched the stud which released its mechanism.
In his rash haste, Lane narrowly missed death. As the platform catapulted him upon the stage, his left shoulder received a smashing blow from the side of a massive float. A few inches closer and he would have been horribly crushed.
Regaining his balance, Lane stumbled toward the judges' boxes.
Members of the audience, both of the Coliseum and those additional millions viewing the spectacle by television, were startled at seeing a disheveled member of the terrestrial race sprinting frantically across the broad stage expanse, waving a six-foot trident.
As he ran, Lane caught the announcement, "First-choice votes now stand, Miss Terrestrial, twenty-seven, Miss Mercury, twenty-one."
The figures spurred him to greater effort. His whole energies were concentrated upon reaching the Callistan box from which unquestionably emanated the hypnotic control that was piling up this calamitous vote for Mary.
The box was separated from the stage by nearly a twenty-foot span, and artificial gravity within the dome of Luna City was nearly at earth intensity.
Summoning all his strength, Lane gathered himself for the leap. The astonished audience saw him leave the stage in a perfect takeoff, apparently bent on self-destruction.
He landed with crashing impact against the turret-like structure. The trident pierced the unsubstantial wall, and his grasp upon it prevented him from falling. One hand grasped at the ledge.
Though taken by surprise, the spider-man occupying the stand moved with lightning speed.
Two arms lashed out to grip the earth-man by the neck, while another pair disengaged his fingers from the ledge.
Gasping, Lane released the trident shaft and caught at the strangling arms which were clutched around his throat.
The strength seemed to drain from his dangling body; the world went black. Then, with the fury of desperation, he gave a convulsive jerk.
The cruel grip on his throat relaxed; the arms went limp. His despairing wrench must have broken the tough but slender bones.
Clinging with one hand to the Callistan's limply dangling members, Lane groped with the other for his trident and wrenched it free. With savage probes, he sought to bury it in the loathsome body within the box.
At this, Gerdlu stretched forth two more arms and dragged the earth-man over the ledge into the booth. The trident caught on the ledge and was wrenched from Lane's grasp.
At close quarters, the two grappled fiercely. With only two of his six prehensile limbs out of commission, the advantage was still with the tough-fibered Callistan. Claws tightened cruelly on Lane's flesh; the fetid breath of the creature was in his face.
As the sharp fangs pierced his neck, the earthman was vaguely conscious of the impacts as some heavy body, followed by another, plummeted over the ledge.
"Easy boy! We'll take over."
He recognized Compton's voice and the uniforms of the Interplanetary Police.
WITH a dim awareness that verged upon unconsciousness, Lane felt himself lifted to his feet and half carried, half supported across the swaying planks which had been hastily thrust across, like a bridge, from the stage to the Callistan box.
They laid him down, and when he struggled to regain his feet it was again Lieutenant Compton's voice that urged.
"Take it easy. He'll be taken care of." His eyes flicked meaningly toward the Callistan's box, within which three I.P. men were trying to force Gerdlu out onto the improvised ramp.
"The voting!" Lane demanded in alarm, suddenly recollecting his purpose. "They didn't—"
"Your stage director called a recess," explained Compton. He added, "The audience can't see us. We're masked by one of your refractive screens."
Lane's practiced ear caught the crowd murmur and detected a restive note. He rose, slowly and painfully, but with decision.
"The contest is off. I'll make the announcement."
"You're in no condition." "See if I'm not!" Lane grinned reassuringly as he stepped from the concealment of the refractive screen.
The flood-lights revealed him, a bloody, disheveled figure. He spoke slowly.
"With deep regret, the management of Interplanetary Expositions announces that the contest is declared off. The reason—as it should be scarcely necessary to state—intimidation of judges and illegal influence."
Pausing, Lane turned and pointed to the Chalice of Circe enthroned in the middle of the stage above the army of floats and displays, before continuing.
"The cup we had hoped to present was apparently too well named. Like its ancient prototype, it seems to possess the power of bringing out the beast in so-called civilized beings."
He waited a minute, listening to the excited murmur of the crowd and to the echoing confusion caused by the translation of his announcement into tongues understood by variegated sections of his audience.
His eyes, roving the judges' booths, were drawn by a gleam of red. The villainous body of a Mercurian was squirming from the cubical reserved for that race.
INSTANTLY, Lane interpreted the move as a threat to Mary—a threat of that horrible death he had been seeking to avert.
He dashed across the stage to intercept the scorpion-like creature, unmindful of Compton's warning, "Back, you fool! Get back!"
From a refraction screen at the edge of the stage, a dozen more I.P. men burst into view, joining in pursuit of the Mercurian. Ignoring them, he scuttled toward the bridge leading to the Callistan box.
In one of his tentacles was a gleam of metal. He paused at the rim of the stage and pointed toward the many-legged Gerdlu. A crackling sound rent the air.
Half in and half out of the box, where he had been struggling against his captors, the Callistan began to disrupt with staccato concatenations. The explosions began at his extremities. Claws on two of the writhing limbs crackled and burst. The discharges ran up one jointed limb, then darted to others, in a crescendo of rapid detonations.
Before the horrified eyes of the multitude, the spider-like body was literally torn to shreds.
Lane caught a glimpse of the orange-red eye as it exploded out of the repulsive head. A moment later, still jerking spasmodically with the blasts of the energy charge, the mass of shattered bones, shell, and fiber that was left of the Callistan dropped to the depths below.
Amid a bedlam of weird noises made by frightened creatures of every type, the red dweller of Mercury turned and scuttled across the stage. Apparently bent now only on escape, he leaped into a tube leading to below-stage regions and disappeared with the I.P. men in hot pursuit.
Strangely, none of the occupants of the section devoted to Triturian spectators made a move to join in the affray.
"Anesthetic gas," Compton explained in a low tone, indicating the strangely quiescent group. "We had it already, just in case."
A stage executive had taken over from Lane and was exhorting each member of the audience to keep his place. "The danger is over," he assured. "Our Mercurian friends are safely asleep— thanks to the prompt action of the Interplanetary Police. And," he added significantly, "when they wake up, they'll be in their space-ship headed for the hot place where they belong."
The feeble joke helped to avert a threatening panic. Even inhabitants of far-off Pluto chuckled at the allusion to Mercury's devastating heat.
WITH THE conviction that everything was at least temporarily under control, Lane turned to seek Mary. He had not far to look. She was standing at his elbow, and now they were again hidden from the audience by a refractive screen.
"Still hate me?" he demanded humbly. "I ought to," she retorted. "It's the publicity hound in you I suppose. If you're counting on me to forgive—"
She did not finish. Bursting through a trap- door almost at their feet, Al Pendergast stood struggling to regain his balance, while dabbing at his bald head with his handkerchief. Half a dozen young men erupted from nearby traps at almost the same instant.
"Mary!" he blurted. "They didn't—they didn't—"
"No, they didn't," she assured him. "But if you think I'm going to weep tears of gratitude, you're mistaken. All Mary can think of is the goof who got her into this mess."
"Don't blame me," pleaded Pendergast, "I warned Godfrey. I said to him, 'If you pull any tricks, we'll lose the best secretary we ever had.'"
"I know a dozen just as good," assured Lane. Mary turned on him, her eyes blazing. "Why you unspeakable—!"
"There you are!" the junior partner observed in a tone of resignation. "If we fight like that now, what's it going to be after we're married?"
Mary gasped. "After we're—!" She turned, conscious of the interested group of newscasters taking it all in.
"The low-down publicity hound," she observed caustically, "even has to do his proposing in public." Her gleaming white shoulders shrugged resignedly.
"All right boys, if he wants it that way, come and get it. You may as well broadcast this kiss— sound effects and all. It's going to be a honey."
They did. And it was!
THE END