Ole Doc Methuselah by L. Ron Hubbard Read Free Book Online Page B

brawl.” And he would have gazed
again at the square except that he was almost dislodged by Dart’s fleeing down
the tower with such violence that even his slight weight shook it. He was
screaming shrilly.
    Blanchard’s
nerves were grating already. His anger flashed after the running slave. It was
all too clear that Dart had broken before this crime’s importance. And a broken
slave . . .
    Throwing
the missile weapon to his hip, Blanchard shot at the running Martian. He tossed
flame before the slave but Dart bolted on. Clicking the action over to
automatic, Blanchard sprayed gouts of fire around and about the escaping man.
But the recoil of the weapon was such that the last blast was directed more
nearly at the zenith than at the runner.
    Dart,
however, had been hit. He was running still but his course was erratic and
shortly brought him back into a pattern of fires the weapon had made. He
stumbled out of this but now his clothing burned. He stopped, tore in agony at
his mask. His screams were punctuated by the slaps of the tenacious mouthpiece
against his lips. He turned once more and fell heavily into a fire, sending
green drops hurtling up about him. The flames flared, smoke rose and then, no
longer fed, the fire guttered down and went out.
    Blanchard’s
hands were trembling as he reached for the crossbars to swing down from the
landing tower. He was not without a sense of loss, and for a moment he was
appalled at the manner he had handed death to one who, while he might have been
cowardly, had at least been loyal. More than this he was shocked by his own
lack of self-control, a shock which was doubled by a sickness he felt at being
so far thrown out of orbit with his plans.
    He
reached the ground and, for a moment, hesitated. But the heaviness of his
cash-lined pockets and the knowledge that so far he had triumphed gave him
courage. He took a deep breath of the cold night and then, with renewed
assurance, reloaded his missile weapon and looked about him.
    It
was not until then that an idea struck him. He crouched a little as though
buffeted by the renewed yells coming from the center of town. His gaze swept
across the field to the Morgue. A white ticket? What did he need of a
white ticket?
    He
laughed in a sharp bark. There were guns on the Morgue. Ray
disintegrators. And while the ship would have been bested in a battle with a
major naval vessel, few transports would be so well armed. And even if the ship
had no guns, one could stand her on her tail above this town and the other
vessels in the port and leave not one scrap of anything to tell the systems
other than that space pirates had evidently been at work.
    The
yells seemed louder. But without a glance back, Blanchard sprinted to the Morgue. Soldier of Light. Well, few would question the occupant of the ship and many
were the dismal planets where one could jettison such as she and buy another
for half the currency that would be aboard her.
    It
was for an instant only that Blanchard regretted the way in which he had been
forced into doing things for which a man could be enslaved and sent to the
hells forever. Elston had been his scapegoat. And a good one, for Elston was
dead. But even then Blanchard doubted that any blame would be attached to
anyone now except the inevitable space pirates to which the System Police
always assigned blame for those crimes which otherwise were never solved. And
in ten minutes this corner of Spico would be subject to certain chain reactions
caused by either guns or tubes.
    He
ran past Dart—or the charred thing which had been Dart—and, so vividly was
Blanchard seeing everything, he noted that the Martian’s salametal tag was
glittering brightly. Blanchard paused and tore off his own. There could as
easily be two men in that ash pile as one. His identification tag clinked
against Dart’s.
    Starting
up again he ran on toward the door of the Morgue gleaming palely golden
in the