The Centaurians were making one last effort to
conquer Earth, and their tools were wise-cracking,
space-jaunting O'Dea and Hawthorne—two guys
to whom freedom was more than a word.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The frantic flares of the rockets lit up a murderous landscape asbarrel-chested Paul Hawthorne wrestled with the controls. He fought tokeep the ship from falling too swiftly, anxious eyes searching for alevel spot to set down the partly-crippled vessel.
Behind him, Lance O'Dea clung to a chart table and growled.
"Put it down!" O'Dea ordered. "You're the Einstein who got us to thisdesert planet of Centauri; now get us landed safely!"
Hawthorne risked a second to turn his grimy face to the animated beanpole behind him. Like himself, O'Dea was unshaven and wrapped in theshapeless coveralls of spacemen. Hawthorne scowled and pushed his hairyarms back into the controls.
"If you think you can do any better," he grunted, "take over yourself!"
"No, thanks." O'Dea bent over to look through the port. The jaggedterrain was closer, and a horrified shudder ran down his bony frame."No, I'll let you answer to Saint Peter for the death of us both!"
His expression as he glared at Hawthorne was distasteful, but themakings of a grin played on the corners of his lips, and a thinly-hidconcern was in his eyes.
"This is the end," he said. In one hand he clutched a photograph of adark-haired girl. "The end, Mercedes! To think you'll be a widow beforeyou're even a wife, all because that ape of a Hawthorne lost all ourfuel in Centauri's asteroid belt—"
"Shut up!" the pilot demanded. One of his hands flipped a wad ofsomething green back in O'Dea's direction. "Here's the ten platins Iowe you. And get ready—this is it!"
A roughly level spot swept up at them—an uneven mesa that endedabruptly a few hundred feet ahead. Hawthorne dropped the vessel in acushion of rocket blasts that were starting to cough for lack of fuel.
The ship bellied along the mesa, dipped into a pocket. O'Dea crashedinto the stocky pilot as the ship turned end over end, then bothstruck the control board, smashing fifty thousand platins worth ofinstruments as they bounced around. The ship hesitated for a second atthe edge of the mesa, balanced neatly, and decided to stay there.
Inside the ship, the lights were gone. For a few seconds there was acrashing of furniture, then silence.
"Lance!" Hawthorne's voice trembled slightly. "Are you killed? Ih-hope—"
But the catch in his throat indicated he meant differently. From thedarkness came O'Dea's answering drawl:
"No, you ape—I was just hoping the same about you. How about somelight?"
Hawthorne fumbled around, found a battery-operated light that hadsurvived the crash. He hobbled to where O'Dea was half buried in a heapof furniture and extricated him. The two of them rubbed their sorespots and looked glumly about.
"Centauri Six," Hawthorne mused. "You have the book l'arnin'. What'sthis planet like?"
O'Dea pressed fingers to his temples.
"Not inhabited by Centaurs," he said. "Which is one small break. Atleast we won't have those monsters—"
"I asked about the planet."
"If any Centaurs show up," said O'Dea shortly, "it'll make nodifference about the planet. The Space Guide gives it the name Avignon.Hardly known by humans, of course—like the rest of this system. Ithas no water and no air. We'll die of thirst or suffocation here, butat least the Centaurs won't ge