Space Lawyer (18 page)

"Yes, Mr. Kenton."

He
proceeded to his own room, dived into the adjoining swimming pool, dried himself, and came out feeling fine. He needed a comb and went to the dresser for it. A white square envelope caught his eye. His name was on the outside, in Sally's well-known smooth, slanting hand.

"Ha!" he grunted. "What's this? It ain’t my birthday—or is it?"

He opened the missive. As his eye traveled down the neat script he started, glared, while the sparks seemed to fly from his wispy white hair and beard. The note read:

"If I'm not home by the time you read this, don't worry. What I did to Kerry is on my conscience. Particularly when I found he had taken off before he heard the Commission ruling. It seemed to me his receiving set was broken. Now I want to play fair; give him the same chance at the comet that you have. I'm therefore going out after him to give him the news and get him to come back. Should catch up with him in a few hours. See you when I return. Love, Sally."

Had the worried employees of Kenton Space Enterprises, Unlimited, been able to see their fiery boss just then they would have been much relieved. For the air turned blue with twisted expletives; he howled and pranced about the room in Isis most familiar fashion. Then he rushed to the visor screen.

An official of the space-port grew on the screen. "Ah, yes, Mr. Kenton?" He was not the one who had previously been on duty.

"Did my daughter take off from your blithering port today?"

"If you'll wait just a moment, Sir, I'll check the records."

The moment passed while Kenton glared at the vacant screen and vented his finest assortment of mixed metaphors. Then the official was on again.

"Yes, sir, she did. Blasted off at 5:30 P. M. in her private flier."

"Where for?"

"There's no clearance, sir; so it must have been a local flight."

Old Simeon did a little jig of rage. "That was no local flight, you soncarned idiot!" he howled. "Why didn't you stop her?"

The startled official said weakly: "I—I wasn't on duty then." "Then put the slithering imbecile on who
was."

"Er—he's not here now. As a matter of fact, he departed suddenly on his vacation about two hours ago."

But Simeon had already shut him off, tuned in Intercommunications. "Get me a connection with my daughter's flier," he howled.

"Yes, sir, where is it?"

"How in the dithering blazes do I know? Out in space somewhere?"

Minutes passed; an hour. Every two minutes he called Intercommunications impatiently; always to hear the same response. "Sorry, sir. We can't raise the ship. It must be out of range.”

At the end of the hour, reason got the better of rage and pride. "All right then, get me that ripscallion Dale." "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"What's the matter, are you deaf?" he shouted. "Kerry Dale on the
Flash."

But the
Flash
could not be raised either. It took the apoplectic Simeon another half hour to remember that the note had mentioned the possibility that the
Flash's
set might be out of order.

By this time it was ten at night. Simeon had grown seriously alarmed. The one-seater was a swift little craft, but not geared for lengthy space flights. He called the Space Patrol.

Immediately there was terrific activity. Two fast ships scoured the spaceways; a general call went out to watch for the missing craft.

At three in the morning, the Mars-Earth liner reported they had sighted a small ship answering to the general description of the flier. It had failed to answer signal, and seemed to be cutting over to the Ganymede lane. About six million miles out.

But after that there was silence. Space crackled with frantic queries. Patrol ships put out from Mars for the unfrequented lane. Planets on Ceres was put on notice. So was Ganymede. It was a double search now—both for Sally and for the
Flash.

Space, however, seemed to have swallowed them both up.

Old Simeon did not sleep that night either. Early in the morning the reporters came in droves. He threw them out. Fifteen-minute bulletins were solemnly read by the newscasters. All were to the same effect: "Nothing has been heard of Miss Kenton or Mr. Dale, in spite of the most gigantic search ever undertaken in interplanetary space. Stay tuned to this station for further bulletins."

By noon Kenton was a wisp of his former self. He swallowed his pride still further. "Get hold of Jericho Foote," he whispered hoarsely. His voice was gone. "He's on his way to Ganymede."

Foote's private cruiser was half way between Mars and the Asteroid Belt when the Space Patrol call came in.

That worthy, head of Mammoth Exploitations, and Kenton's chief rival, had been in high good humor; if what he felt could be called that. His dark, twisted visage wreathed itself in a perpetual grimace which passed with him for a smile. Even the reception of the Commission's pronouncement on Comet X startled him only momentarily. Then he simply sneered. "Not bad! Not bad!" he rubbed his oily hands. "It'll only keep competition away until it's too late. That means my—um—men will have a free field."

His plan of action was exceedingly simple. To return and obey the Commission's orders would have been silly. By this time, he rightly surmised, Kenton must have commandeered the fastest ships in the System. He himself would have done the same had he been on the ground. But what was the sense in filing legally on a comet with an orbit of over two thousand years? Whatever was of value on it would have to be taken out in a mighty short time—actually, on its swing around the sun and back again—at the most—as far as Saturn. No one had ever ventured beyond that ringed planet; and mighty few had been daring enough to go that far. The last outpost stations of the System were on the planets of Jupiter.

And even in that swing, the time for actual exploitation was limited. The last cometary swerve around the sun would bring it so close to the central fires as to make it a fiery hell, impossible to work. The best time was now—at least when he got out there—when the comet would be somewhere between Saturn and Jupiter. A wolfish grin showed his stained teeth. Yes, that Commission directive was an unexpected blessing. While the others were twiddling their thumbs for two weeks, and then taking another week or so to race to the oncoming comet,
he
would have already stripped it; or at least taken off the cream.

The Commission? He snapped his fingers contemptuously. Those dodoes would have nothing on him, Jericho Foote. The space outlaws who had served him before would serve him again. He wouldn't even appear in the picture. True, they had failed on that highjacking of the thermatite asteroid. But that hadn't been their fault. His face darkened, and his hand went to the ragged scar across it. Kerry Dale! Simeon Kenton! Someday he'd get even with them both.

Then had come the frantic search messages winging across space. They restored his good humor. So Sally Kenton was lost! "I hope they never find her," he snarled to himself. The next batch of messages threw him into a momentary fear, though. Kerry Dale was on the way to Ganymede, was he? He remembered their meeting outside Wilson's office. That meant he had figured out the same thing about the comet that he, Foote had. Foote hated Dale, but had also a healthy respect for his resourcefulness and ingenuity. But a moment's reflection restored his aplomb. "Bah! I started twelve hours ahead of him, and this boat is much faster than that old tub of his. My—hem—men will be on the comet and off long before he could ever reach it. Besides, he'll have to obey the order and turn back. He has no—hum—men to take the blame for him. Hee! Hee!"

When the Space Patrol inquiry came through, he was most self-possessed. Seen anything of the
Flash
or Miss Kenton? Of course not. How could he? He had started from Megalon many hours before either of them; and his cruiser, if he
did
say so himself, was pretty speedy. Where was he, Jericho Foote, beading?

He drew himself as erect as he was constitutionally able. To Ganymede. Business. His papers were in order. Why did the Space Control see fit to question such a—ahem—respectable citizen as himself?

The Patrol officer was immediately apologetic. Sorry, it was lust routine. Did he by any chance have any ideas about what had happened to the missing couple?

Foote smiled craftily. "Well," he said, after due thought, "perhaps—they might have eloped—you know how stubborn old Kenton can be. Or maybe—hmm, yes—young Dale might have kidnapped the girl. After all, she's heiress to millions."

The Patrol officer was flabbergasted. He did not dare report this conversation to his home base. But the Intersystem outfit had sent a reporter on the Patrol ship. "Wow!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That baby's
really
looking for trouble. One memento from Old Fireball's cane wasn't enough for him."

He couldn't send an open message to his office. The Patrol officer wouldn't have permitted it. But he packed the explosive information into a code which, on the face of it, seemed merely a routine report. Within an hour the newscasters were spreading Foote's remarks all over the System.

This time, both servants and doctors became truly alarmed over Simeon's condition. He seemed on the verge of a stroke. Perhaps he would have bad one, had not a message relayed from Planets opportunely arrived at the Megalon office of the Space Patrol. One look at it and the Chief of Staff got hurriedly into his official car and flew directly to the Kenton estate.

There be found the old man gasping for breath and purple in color. Two doctors were working on him with restoratives. He barged in, speaking rapidly: "Your daughter has been found, Mr. Kenton."

Old Simeon started up. "Safe?"

"Safe and sound."

"Where the devil—"

The Patrol Chief looked significantly at the doctors and the crowding servants.

"Clear out!" shouted Kenton. "All of you."

One of the doctors protested. "You're allowing yourself to get excited again, Mr. Kenton. We can't be responsible—"

"Who's asking you to?" yelled Simeon. "And how dare you call me excited! Out with you all!"

When they were alone, the Patrol Chief handed him a message blank. "This has just come through from Planets," he exclaimed.

Simeon grabbed it with a trembling hand. It said:

Simeon Kenton,

Megalon, Earth.

Dear Dad:

Terribly sorry, but couldn't have let you know earlier. The
Iris
[her flier] ran out of fuel and power. Oxygenation stopped. I blacked out. Luckily, Kerry Dale—remember him?—picked up my last call for help. Came back and found me. I'm all right. So is he. It may take time for my return to Earth.
Please don't worry.
Love.

SALLY.

"Thank God!" breathed Kenton fervently. Then he stared at the Chief. "But where—how—did this come from Planets? Can't one of your ships get hold of the
Flash
and take her off?"

"It's a curious business," said the Chief. He frowned. "I don't understand it all myself." Privately, he was convinced that Foote's wild shot in the dark had been correct; that the pair were eloping. But he didn't dare say it outright to Sally's father.

Aloud he said: "A cargo ship picked up this message while traveling from the Asteroid Belt. The captain says he was considerably out of the regular lane at the time because he wanted to investigate a small asteroid which he had been told might prove valuable. Anyway, he heard a signal, faint and far off. He replied. The signal identified itself as the
Flash,
Mr. Dale on board. Dale asked if he would relay a message for him to Planets. The captain said he would. Then this came through."

"Ah!" Kenton exhaled slowly. "Then how do we know that—?" He stopped short.

The Chief smiled. "That Miss Kenton was actually on board?" he finished the old man's uncompleted sentence. "Miss Kenton herself delivered the actual message. It's true the captain could not see her on the screen. But that, he explained, was because the
Flash
was evidently out of visual range. He swears however that it was her voice. He had heard your daughter on the telecasts."

Old Simeon stared at the message again.
It may take time
for my
return to Earth.
What the devil did that mean?

Couldn't Dale have transferred Sally to the cargo ship, or mentioned that he was taking her to Planets? And why wasn't he turning back now that he knew his mission was in vain? What was going on anyway?

He swung on the waiting Patrol Chief. "Will you call up Planets at once and get them to send out a ship to take off my daughter?"

The Chief's face was sober. "The Planets station has already acted on its own initiative. But they can't find the
Flash.
They can't even establish communication with her."

Kenton stared. "But that's impossible!" he said violently. "Dale's got an old slow tub. Your ships are three times as fast. He's on the Ganymede lane; you've had three cruisers scouring that lane."

"He's on it no longer," said the Chief slowly. "The Patrol boats have already searched the area thoroughly."

There was a moment's silence. "You mean—he's deliberately swung off, and won't reply to calls?"

The Chief found a most interesting object at the other end of the room to stare at. "It looks that way," he admitted finally. "Our cruisers have been given orders to swing out in wide circles." He looked squarely at the old man now. "But space is pretty big, Mr. Kenton, once you get off the lanes."