Manly Wade Wellman - Novella by Ismail The Outworlder (v1.1)

Author:Ismail, The Outworlder (v1.1) [Ismail, The Outworlder (v1.1)]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

AT LEAGUE Police headquarters, two of the Pulambar detail were grumblingly doing what their chiefs had told them to do. Into Yaxul’s tentacle-tip they gave the chronometer whose serial numbers showed it to be the property of Starwick Ismail.

“Just how it’ll give you his trail I don’t see,” said one. “I think you owe it to us to explain this Bloodhound talk.”

“In good time, sirr,” temporized Yaxul. “The Bloodhound iss experri- mental ass yet. Laterr we will have interressting information forr yourr forrce, and perrhapss valuable aid. But now—will you parrdon uss?”

The two left, and Yaxul carried the chronometer to the inner office, where

Troy Fairdean sat before a bench where her double device, with goggles and earphones, was busily in operation.

“If Ismail had only tried to keep the atom-shift, we could close in again,” she mourned, and turned off the power. “What’s that, the chronometer? It’ll be a trifle of help, but not as much as if Ismail himself was carrying it. How about the old book Harvison lost?”

Yaxul shook his petal-fronded head. “Issmail will not carrry it with him. It iss hidden—well hidden, and not anywherre ourr rradio-finderrss can locate eassily. But trry thiss.”

He carried the chronometer to the other end of the bench. There were numerous chemical supplies and gadgets. Yaxul tested with rays, acids, vibration-finders. As Troy joined him, he clucked in satisfaction.

“Ssomething individual herre.” He showed her the end of a platinum chain, fastened to the stem of the chronometer and broken as if by a sharp pull. “Can we tune in on that?”

Troy bent to study, her wise face growing wiser. “We can,” she said at once, “or the Bloodhound can. Let’s get things started. And this time,” she added as she gathered up her paraphernalia, “we’ll stay close behind, and appear at the right moment, eh?”

“If Issmail sstill hass the brroken end of the chain, he iss doomed,” purred Yaxul. “Not two tirness can even he sslip away from the Bloodhound.”

They were ready to leave, when a buzzer sounded. Troy picked up an earphone and listened.

“Harvison again,” she reported. “He thinks he can give us anotherr lead to Ismail.”

“Ignore him,” urged Yaxul. “Come, thiss iss a ssurrerr trrail.”

AFTER the League police operatives had left him, Roland Harvison scolded himself for losing so much of his scientific calm; but selfscolding did not help. He was chagrined and worried.

His whole life of study and experiment had pointed toward aiding in the fight for the sort of weather needed on thirsty, desert-spread Mars. Harvison truly wanted to live and die in the service of a parched planet, to leave as his own monument a corrected season of rains and fertility each year. And to him had been entrusted the priceless, unique volume of lost Twentieth-Century lore that might help him make his labors a success until—

He poured himself a drink of Irish whiskey, his favorite comfort since the days he had crammed for college examinations. There was a click-warning, someone wranted to get in. He pressed a lever by a speaker-diaphragm.

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