Chapter 8

The girl moved with the peculiar gliding walk so characteristic of a person walking under low-gravity conditions, and the ease and grace with which she did it showed that she was no stranger to low-gee. To the three men from Earth who followed her a few paces behind, the gee-pull seemed so low as to be almost nonexistent, although it was actually a shade over one quarter of that of Earth, the highest gravitational pull of any planetoid in the Belt. Their faint feeling of nausea was due simply to their lack of experience with really low gravity--the largest planetoid in the Belt had a surface gravity that was only one eighth of the pull they were now experiencing, and only one thirty-second of the Earth gravity they were used to.

The planetoid they were on--or rather, in--was known throughout the Belt simply as Threadneedle Street, and was nowhere near as large as Ceres. What accounted for the relatively high gravity pull of this tiny body was its spin. Moving in its orbit, out beyond the orbit of Mars, it turned fairly rapidly on its axis--rapidly enough to overcome the feeble gravitational field of its mass. It was a solid, roughly spherical mass of nickel-iron, nearly two thirds of a mile in diameter and, like the other inhabited planetoids of the Belt, honeycombed with corridors and rooms cut out of the living metal itself. But the corridors and rooms were oriented differently from those of the other planetoids; Threadneedle Street made one complete rotation about its axis in something less than a minute and a half, and the resulting centrifugal force reversed the normal “up” and “down”, so that the center of the planetoid was overhead to anyone walking inside it. It was that fact which added to the queasiness of the three men from Earth who were following the girl down the corridor. They knew that only a few floors beneath them yawned the mighty nothingness of infinite space.

The girl, totally unconcerned with thoughts of that vast emptiness, stopped before a door that led off the corridor and opened it. “Mr. Martin,” she said, “these are the gentlemen who have an appointment with you. Mr. Gerrol. Mr. Vandenbosch. Mr. Nguma.” She called off each name as the man bearing it walked awkwardly through the door. “Gentlemen,” she finished, “this is Mr. Stanley Martin.” Then she left, discreetly closing the door.

The young man behind the desk in the metal-walled office stood up smiling as the three men entered, offered his hand to each, and shook hands warmly. “Sit down, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward three solidly built chairs that had been anchored magnetically to the nickel-iron floor of the room.

“Well,” he said genially when the three had seated themselves, “how was the trip out?”

He watched them closely, without appearing to do so, as they made their polite responses to his question. He was acquainted with them only through correspondence; now was his first chance to evaluate them in person.

Barnabas Nguma, a very tall man whose dark brown skin and eyes made a sharp contrast with the white of the mass of tiny, crisp curls on his head, smiled when he spoke, but there were lines of worry etched around his eyes. “Pleasant enough, Mr. Martin. I’m afraid that steady one-gee acceleration has left me unprepared for this low gravity.”

“Well,” said Stefan Vandenbosch, “it really isn’t so bad, once you get used to it. As long as it’s steady, I don’t mind it.” He was a rather chubby man of average height, with blond hair that was beginning to gray at the temples and pale blue eyes that gave his face an expression of almost childlike innocence.

Arthur Gerrol, the third man, was almost as light-complexioned as Vandenbosch. His thinning hair was light brown, and his eyes were a deep gray-blue, and the lines in his hard, blocky face gave him a look of grim determination. “I agree, Stefan. It isn’t the low gravity per se. It’s the doggone surges. We went from one gee to zero when the ship came in for a landing at the pole of Threadneedle Street. Then, as we came back down here, the gravity kept going up, and that ... what do you call it? Coriolis force? Yeah, that’s it. It made my head feel as though the whole room was spinning.” Then, realizing what he’d said, he laughed sharply.

The man behind the desk laughed with him. “Yes, it is a bit disconcerting at first, but the spin gives enough gee-pull to make a man feel comfortable, once he’s used to it. That’s one of the reasons why Threadneedle Street was picked. As the financial center of the Belt, we have a great many visitors from Earth, and one-quarter gee is a lot easier to get used to than a fiftieth.” Then he looked quickly at the others and said, “Now, gentlemen, how can Lloyd’s of London help you?”

He had phrased it that way on purpose, deliberately making it awkward for them to bring up the subject they had on their minds.

It was Nguma who broke the short silence. “Quite simply, Mr. Martin, we have come to put our case before you in person. It is not Lloyd’s we want--it is you.”

“You refer to our correspondence on the Nipe case, Mr. Nguma?”

“Exactly. We feel--”

The man behind the desk interrupted him. “Mr. Nguma, do you have any further information?” He looked as though such news would be welcome but that it would not change his mind in the least.

“That’s just it, Mr. Martin,” said Nguma, “we don’t know whether our little bits and dribbles of information are worth anything.”

The man behind the desk leaned back in his chair again. “I see,” he said softly. “Well, just what is it you want of me, Mr. Nguma?”

Nguma looked surprised. “Why, just what I’ve written, sir! You are acknowledged as the greatest detective in the Solar System--bar none. We need you, Mr. Martin! Earth needs you! That inhuman monster has been killing and robbing for ten years! Men, women, and children have been slaughtered and eaten as though they were cattle! You’ve got to help us find that God-awful thing!”

Before there could be any answer, Arthur Gerrol leaned forward earnestly and said, “Mr. Martin, we don’t just represent businessmen who have been robbed. We also represent hundreds and hundreds of people who have had friends and relatives murdered by that horror. Little people, Mr. Martin. Ordinary people who are helpless against the terror of a superhuman evil. This isn’t just a matter of money and goods lost--it’s a matter of lives lost. Human lives, Mr. Martin.”

“They’re not the only ones who are concerned, either,” Vandenbosch broke in. “If that hellish thing isn’t destroyed, more will die. Who knows how long a beast like that may live? What is its life-span? Nobody knows!” He waved a hand in the air. “For all we know, it could go on for another century--maybe more--killing, killing, killing.”

The detective looked at them for a moment in silence. These three men represented more than just a group of businessmen who had grown uneasy about the Government’s ability to catch the Nipe; they represented more than a few hundred or even a few thousand people who had been directly affected by the monster’s depredations. They represented the growing feeling of unrest that was making itself known all over Earth. It was even making itself felt out here in the Belt, although the Nipe had not, in the past decade, shown any desire to leave Earth. Why hadn’t the beast been found? Why couldn’t it be killed? Why were its raids always so fantastically successful?

For every toothmark that inhuman thing had left on a human bone, it had left a thousand on human minds--marks of a fear that was more than a fear. It was a deep-seated terror of the unknown.

The number of people killed in ordinary accidents in a single week was greater than the total number killed by the Nipe in the last decade, but nowhere were men banding together to put a stop to that sort of death. Accidental death was a known factor, almost a friend; the Nipe was stark horror.

The detective said: “Gentlemen, I’m sorry, but what I said in my last letter still goes. I can’t take the job. I will not go to Earth.”

Every one of the three men could sense the determination in his voice, the utter finality of his words. There was no mistaking the iron-hard will of the man. They knew that nothing could shake him--nothing, at least, that they could do.

But they couldn’t admit defeat. No matter how futile they knew it to be, they still had to try.

Nguma took a billfold from his jacket pocket, opened it, and took out an engraved sheet of paper with an embossed seal in one corner. He put it on the desk in front of the detective.