Chapter 3: Death Rides the Star Devil

Usually, when pursuing an enemy, Hawk Carse was impassive and grim, apparently emotionless, icy. But now he seemed somehow disturbed.

He fidgeted around, glancing occasionally at the visi-screen to make sure his quarry was not changing course, now watching Friday juggle through the skin of atmosphere into outer space, and now standing apart, silent and solitary, brooding.

There was something about the affair he didn’t like. Something that was deeply hidden, that could not be grasped clearly; that might, on the other hand, be pure imagination. And yet, why--

Why, for instance, had the brigands taken to their heels with just the barest semblance of fight? Why, with their defensive ray-web proof for some time at least against his offensive rays, had they left without more of a struggle for the horn? Why were they so willing to flee, knowing as they must that he, the Hawk, would follow? Did they not know he had--thanks to Master Scientist Eliot Leithgow--the fastest ship in space, and would inevitably overtake them?

Were they Ku Sui’s men? It seemed so, certainly, from the great strength of their defensive ray-web. No other ships that he knew of in space save Ku Sui’s possessed such power. But--it wasn’t the brilliant Eurasian’s customary style. It was too simple for him.

Carse stroked his bangs. The factors were all mixed up. He didn’t like it.

Iapetus’ atmosphere was left behind; in minutes the light blue wash of her sky changed to the hard, frigid blackness of lifeless space. The Star Devil’s lighting tubes glowed softly, though Saturn’s rays, coming through the wide bow windows, still lit every object in the control cabin with hard and dazzling brilliancy. Inside, light and color, life and action; outside, the eternal, sable void, sprinkled with its millions of sparkling motes of worlds. And ahead--shown now on the visa-screen only by the light dots of its ports--was the brigand craft.

The Star Devil was smoothly building up the speed that would eventually bring her up to the craft of the enemy. Carse’s Earth-watch told him that an hour and a half had passed. A vague anxiety oppressed him, but he shook it off with the thought that soon the time for accounting would arrive. Only forty minutes more; probably less. His fears--foolish. He was getting too suspicious...

Then came the voice.

It pierced through the control cabin from the loudspeaker cone above the radio switchboard. It was rough and mocking. It said:

“Hawk Carse? Hawk Carse? You hear me?” Many times it repeated this. “Yes? You hear me, Hawk Carse? I’ve a joke I want you to hear--a very funny joke. You’ll enjoy it!” There interrupted the staccato sounds of an irrepressible amusement.

Carse froze. His fingers by habit fluttered over his ray-gun butt as he wheeled and looked into the loudspeaker. Friday, at the space-stick, stared at him; Harkness’s face was puzzled as he peered at the loudspeaker and then turned and gazed at his captain.

“But where,” he asked, “--where does the voice come from? Who is it?”

As if thinking aloud, Carse whispered:

“From that ship ahead. I half expected ... I know it well, that voice. Very well. It’s the voice of ... of ... I can’t quite place it ... In a minute ... The voice of--”

The chuckling ceased, and again the voice spoke.

“Yes--a very funny joke! I can’t share it all with you, Carse, because you’d spoil it. But do you remember, some years ago, five men--and another who lay before them? Do you remember how this last man said: ‘Each one of you will die for what you’ve done to me?’ That man didn’t wear bangs over his forehead then. Remember? Well, I’m one of the five the mighty Hawk Carse swore he would kill!”

Again the voice broke into a chuckle.

But it ended suddenly. The tone it changed into was entirely different, was cruel with a taunting sneer.

“Bah! The avenging Hawk! The mighty Hawk! Well, in minutes, you’ll be dead. You’ll be dead! The mighty Sparrow Carse will be dead!”

A brief eternity went by. Carse remembered, and the glint in his gray eyes grew colder.

“Judd the Kite,” he whispered.

Friday’s lips formed the words.

And even Harkness, new to the frontiers of space, knew the name and echoed it haltingly.

“Judd the Kite...”

Of all the henchmen Dr. Ku Sui had gathered about him and banded against Earth, and against Carse, and against all peaceful traders and merchant-ships, Judd was perhaps the most cruel and relentless.

The Kite he was called--though only behind his back--yet it might better have been Vulture. Big and gross, with thick unstable lips and stubby, hairy fingers, more than once he and his motley gang of hi-jackers had painted a crimson splash across the far corners of the frontiers, and daubed it to the tortured groans of the crews of honest trading ships. Often they had plunged on isolated trading posts and left their factors wallowing in their life blood. And more...

There are things that cannot be set down in print, that the carefully edited history books only hint at, and into this class fell many of the Kite’s deeds. He was a master of the Venusian tortures. He and his band during the unspeakable debauches which always followed a successful raid would amuse themselves by practising certain of these tortures on the day’s captives; and his victims, both men and women, would see and feel indescribable things, and Death would be kept most carefully away until the last ounce of life and pain had been squeezed quite dry.

“Judd the Kite,” Carse repeated in a hardly audible whisper. “Judd the Kite ... one of the five...” Slowly his left hand rose and smoothed his long bangs of flaxen hair. “I have been looking for him.”

“Will you reply to him, sir?” asked Harkness.

“What use? His trap--Ku Sui’s trap, of course--has already been set.” His brain raced. “What could it be?” he whispered slowly.

Friday was scratching his woolly hair, his smooth face puzzled, when Carse, with the crisp decisiveness that always came to him when in action, looked up at the visi-screen. The brigand was still clinging to a straight course, and being overhauled rapidly. Another thirty minutes and they would be within striking distance. He said tersely:

“Set up the defensive web. Spiral and zig-zag the ship all you dare, altering the period of the swing each time. Harkness, you and I are going to make an inspection tour. General alarm if Judd’s course changes, Friday.”

“Yes, suh.” The negro, frowning, gave his undivided attention to his instruments as the Hawk and Harkness went aft into the next compartment, the engine room.

It looked quite normal. The great dynamos were humming smoothly; the air-renewing machine was functioning steadily; the gauge hands all slept or quivered in their usual places. Nothing uneven in the slight vibration of the ship; nothing that might possibly forbode trouble. Up on his perch, the engineer peered down curiously and asked:

“Anything wrong, sir?”

“Not yet,” Carse answered shortly. “You’re sure everything is regular here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. But check every vital spot at once--and quickly. Then keep alert.”

They passed on into the following compartment, the mess-room and sleeping quarters for the crew. Solid, rhythmical snores were issuing from the cook’s open mouth as he lay sprawled out on his bunk; the smell of coffee hovered in the air; the cabin was quiet and comfortable with an atmosphere of sleep and rest. The radio-man, reading in his bunk, looked over and, seeing it was Carse, sat up.

“Notice anything wrong?” he was asked.

“Wrong? What--Why, no, sir. You want me for duty?”

“Yes. Stay here and keep your eyes open for signs of trouble. I’m expecting some. General alarm if the slightest thing happens.” And Carse went noiselessly into the last division of the ship.

This was the cargo hold. The boxes of phanti horns were neatly stacked in precise rows; the dim tube burning overhead showed nothing that gave the smallest cause for alarm. The Hawk’s narrowed eyes swept walls, deck and ceiling in a search for signs of strain or buckling, but found none.