he was aware of each tiny detail far more clearly than he had been at the time—the texture of the material from which MacDonald’s suit was made, the infinitesimal shadow underscoring every roughness of the snow, the exact sensation of walking in his leaded boots, the whisper and whistle of his oxygen system. He quarreled again with MacDonald, not missing a word. He climbed with him into the tower of Number Three hoist and examined the signal lights, and sat down on the bench, smiling, to wait.
He sweated inside his suit. He would take a shower when he got back to quarters. He wished for a smoke. MacDonald’s steady grumbling and cursing filled his helmet. He listened, enjoying it. Hope you bang yourself with your own clumsy hammer. And I wish you joy of your fortune. If you have as many friends rich as you had poor you won’t have any. There was an itch under his left arm. He pressed the suit in with his right and wriggled his body against it. It didn’t do any good. Damn suits. Damn Titan. Lucky Elena, back on Earth with the kids. Making good money, though. Won’t be long before I can go back and live like a human being. Now his nose itched, and MacDonald was still grumbling. There was the faintest ghost of a sound and then crack, then nothing, dark, cold, sinking, very weak, gone. Nothing, nothing. I come to in the cold silence and look down the shaft at MacDonald and he is dead.
Go back a bit. Slow. That’s right. Easy. Back to Elena and the kids.
Lucky Elena, in the sun and the warm sweet air. Lucky kids. But I’m lucky too. I can go back to them soon. My nose itches. Why does your nose always itch when you’ve got a helmet on, or your hands all over grease? Listen to MacDonald, damning the belt, damning the tools, damning everything in sight. Is that a footstep? The air is thin and poisonous, but it carries sound. Somebody coming behind me? Split second, no time to look or think. Crack. Cold. Dark. Nothing.
Let’s go back again. Don’t hurry. We’ve all the time in the world. Go back to the footsteps you heard behind you.
Almost heard. And then I black and cold. Heavy. Flat. Face heavy against helmet, cold. Lying down. Must get up, must get up, danger. Far away. Can’t. MacDonald is screaming. Let the lift alone, what are you doing, Hyrst? Hyrst! Shut up, you greedy little man, and listen. You’re not Hyrst—who are you? That doesn’t matter. I know, you’re from Bellaver. Bellaver sent you to steal the Titanite. Well, you won’t get it. It’s where nobody will ever get it unless I show them how. Good. That’s good, MacDonald. That’s what I wanted to know. You see, we don’t need the Titanite.
MacDonald screams again and the lift goes down with a roar and a rattle of severed chain.
Heavy footsteps, shaking the floor by my head. Someone turns me over, speaks to me, bending close. Light is gray and strange. I try to rouse. I can’t. The man is satisfied. He drops me and goes away, but I have seen his face inside his helmet. I hear him working on some metal thing with a tool. He is whistling a little under his breath. MacDonald is not screaming now. From time to time he whimpers. But I have seen the killer’s face.
I have seen his face.
I have seen—
Take it easy, Hyrst. Take your time.
Elena is dead, and this is Christina bending over me.
I have seen the killer’s face.
It is the face of Vernon.
CHAPTER VII
There was Christina, and there was Shearing, and there were two more he did not know, leaning over him. The drug was wearing off a little, and Hyrst could see them more clearly, see the bitter disappointment in their eyes.
“Is that all?” Christina said. “Are you sure? Go back again—”
They took him back again, and it was the same.
“That’s all MacDonald said? Then we’re no closer to the Titanite than we were before.”
Hyrst was not interested in the Titanite. “Vernon,” he said. Something red and wild rose up in him, and he tried to tear away the straps that held him. “Vernon. I’ll get him—”
“Later, Hyrst,” said Shearing, and sighed. “Lie still a bit. He’s on Bellaver’s yacht, remember? Quite out of reach. Now think. MacDonald said, You won’t get it, it’s where nobody will ever get it—”
“What’s the use?” said Christina, turning away. “It was a faint hope anyway. Dying men don’t draw obliging maps for you.” She sat down on the edge of a bunk and put her head in her hands. “We might as well give up. You know that.”
One of the two Lazarites who had done the latent probe on Hyrst said with hollow hopefulness, “Perhaps if we let him rest a while and then go over it again—”
“Let me up out of here,” said Hyrst, still groggy with the drug. “I want Vernon.”
“I’ll help you get him,” said Shearing, “if you’ll tell me what MacDonald meant when he said nobody will ever get it unless I show them how.”
“How the devil do I know?” Hyrst tugged at the straps, raging. “Let me up.”
“But you knew MacDonald well. You worked with him and beside him for years.”
“Does that tell me where he hid the Titanite? Don’t be an ass, Shearing. Let me up.”
“But,” said Shearing equably, “he didn’t say where. He said how.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Is it? Listen. Nobody will ever get it unless I show them where. Nobody will ever get it unless I show them how.”
Hyrst stopped fighting the straps. He began to frown. Christina lifted her head again. She did not say anything. The two Lazarites who had done the probe stood still and held their breath.
Shearing’s mind touched Hyrst’s stroking it as with soothing fingers. “Let’s think about that for a minute. Let your thoughts move freely. MacDonald was an engineer. The engineer. Of the four, he alone knew every inch of the physical set-up of the refinery. So?”
“Yes. That’s right. But that doesn’t say where—Wait a minute, though. If he’d just shoved it in a crack somewhere in the mountains, he’d know a detector might find it, more easily than before it was dug. He’d have put it some where deep, deeper than he could possibly dig. Maybe in an abandoned mine?”
“No place,” said Shearing, “is too deep for us to probe. We’ve examined every abandoned mine on that side of Titan. And it doesn’t fit, anyway. No. Try again.”
“He wouldn’t have brought it back to the refinery. One of us would be sure to find it. Unless, of course—”
Hyrst stopped, and the tension in the sick-bay tightened another notch. The ship lurched sharply, swerved, and shot upward with a deafening thunder of rocket-blasts. Hyrst shut his eyes, thinking hard.
“Unless he put it in some place so dangerous that nobody ever went there. A place where even he didn’t go, but which he would know about being the engineer.”
“Can you think of any place that would answer that description?”
“Yes,” said Hyrst slowly. “The underground storage bins. They’re always hot, even when they’re
