About this book

The Sex Life of the Gods

M. E. Knerr

adequate pressurization would be a fond memory. He stuffed Danson's body into the cockpit seat and buckled the strap about him. Lors left the cockpit canopy open and leaped to the floor of the tube. How long do I have? A minute? Two? Keep them outside, he pleaded, and dived for the button. "Lors!" The shout echoed hollowly in the tube. He glanced toward the door and saw three mechanics inside the tube. Thunder and lightning! One second after he had slammed the button and all the doors would have locked automatically and the port would have opened. Panicked by the sight of them, he whipped out his pistol and fired. In the tube, the weapon sounded like a firecracker going off in a steel drum. The unarmed mechanics stopped dead, whirled and ducked back through the door. In another four seconds, the armed guards would show up. Lors shoved the weapon back into the holster and slammed his hand against the button. It would lock them out now! He had his thirty seconds now. He dived for the ship, dropped into the cockpit and slammed the canopy forward, twisting the lock into place. His fingers moved over the controls and the engines whined into life as the port opened before him. He was on his way! He revved the engines impatiently as the big door rolled away and the stars burned in at him. Then he shoved the speed control forward and the scout ship surged out into the blackness of space. His feet kicked at the pedals and his hands worked the stick. The scout ship rolled over and streaked toward the lighted ball of the earth. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the mother-ship. Tiny flashes of brilliant light speared from the starship. They lifted, fluttered and followed him like a swarm of bees. They were giving chase! CHAPTER EIGHTEEN He had thought there would be a pursuit. He kicked at the rudder pedals and threw the stick; the scout ship rolled over and plunged toward the ice cap at the north pole of the planet. At 16,000 m.p.h., the rocket was little more than a guided missile and he knew that when he reached the ice cap, he'd have to throttle back - but then so would his pursuers. Beside him, on the seat, Nick Danson's head rolled from side to side as the ship streaked toward the earth. The four scout ships were fanned out behind him and trying to close, yet he was holding them at bay with a mere 16,500 m.p.h. He wished frantically that he could have figured out a way to stymie the chase, but starships were not built to be sabotaged. The designers had done a damned good job on them, fitting them with every device known to prevent crippling, or damaging by the enemy, whoever it may be. The four ships were hanging on him. I've got to lose them, he thought feverishly. I've got to lose them long enough to get Danson back to the cabin and get the hell out again. After that, they can have me. But not now. He looked behind him, trying to determine whether or not they were getting set to fire on him. They didn't look it, but he couldn't tell. Weapons were not a scout ship's strong point. Each ship was armed with a large rocket launcher, but it was seldom used. Speed was the greatest weapon they needed and the military designers of the home planet had poured all their energy into the fast maneuvering of the craft. The heavy caps of ice that covered the continent of Greenland loomed up before him and he hoped that he could lose them in the white wilderness. He would have to throttle back when he reached the jagged waste of ice, but then so would the four behind him. They saw what he was attempting, and poured all the power they could into their ships. Lors flattened the ship out in a shallow dive and pushed the throttle control until it stopped. The needle on the airspeed indicator leaped violently. 24,000 m.p.h. The ice rose against the windshield swiftly. One of the scout ships closed and fired a rocket. He kicked at the rudder pedal and threw the ship to the left. The scout ship responded like a nervous horse and fluttered away as the rocket burned and arced beneath the underbelly. He pulled the throttle control back, cutting the speed of the ship and shoving on the rudder as he hauled at the stick. The maneuver was too fast for the ships behind him. They tore past him in silver flashes, trying to correct their error. He streaked off toward the Azores Islands, slicing into the atmosphere viciously, while he watched the other ships whirling off to come back at him. They would soon have to break radio silence, or they would never get him. It was almost impossible to close on a quarry at these speeds, unless each man knew what his buddy was doing. At 15,000 miles per hour, a micro-second of delay before acting, could slam two ships together with a violence that would atomize everything. Still they refused to make radio contact with each other. Lors watched them coming back at him, minute silver specks on the radar sweep. He shoved the stick forward and dived for the ocean in a shallow plunge. He had the biggest advantage, in that they had to anticipate _his_ moves, in order to get him into their sights. One of them got him in his sights and fired. He watched the rocket spearing toward his ship and slammed the stick over to the right. The discus-like scout ship flipped over in a slow roll, the rocket barely missing the ship. Lors felt a little sick. He eased the throttle back, flattening the ship out not fifty feet above the water of the Atlantic Ocean. Then he shoved the throttle to the wall and raced north. The Scout ship speed indicator swung crazily and stopped at 24,500 m.p.h. Behind him, the other four were firewalling their throttles just to keep within range. They couldn't possibly fire at him, because going away at speeds like they were using, he could outrun any rocket made. Not only was that in his favor, but should one of them fire, they would fly into their own weapon. He glanced at Danson. Nick had awakened and was staring wide eyed at the ocean that was spinning past them as they streaked north. Then Nick's mouth opened and Lors looked ahead. They were almost on the freighter! Lors lifted the ship and whipped over the spars of the ship in a rush that had probably broken lines and smashed windows all over the vessel. Behind him, the others were streaking over the ship and Lors could imagine the terrified crew-members who had probably been knocked flat by the wash from the scout ships. Danson had fainted. Ahead of him was a heavy cloud cover. He streaked for it, with his four buddies in hot pursuit. He hit the cloud cover and began dodging recklessly through it, changing his course constantly to throw his pursuers off. He burst out on the far side of the bank of clouds and couldn't see the other four ships. He streaked for the cabin in the mountain country of Pennsylvania, with Danson still out. Lors throttled back and hovered over the cabin. It was deserted. In the sunlight, it looked like a child's toy house in a miniature clearing. He settled the ship in another small clearing, in the woods beyond the house and shut off the engines. He threw back the canopy and removed the belt from around Danson. He slung the Terran over his shoulder and headed for the cabin. Still nothing moved about the place. Lors breathed a sigh of relief. All he had to do now, was dump Danson and get out. Nick could tell his wife everything and get things straightened out. Brice could be reported as missing in the woods and the wrecked scout ship could be covered up by the men in Washington. He eased his way into the house and flopped Danson's unconscious body on the couch. He had started to pull off Danson's borrowed uniform when he heard the footstep. He whirled about! Beth! CHAPTER NINETEEN She stood there for a moment and stared at the two of them, and he could see from her face that she was not sure which one was her husband. Lors came to his feet and looked at her, not quite sure what to say or do. "Beth..." "Don't explain, Lors," she told him. Her voice was as calm and as unruffled as though she found men from outer space in the cabin every afternoon. "I brought him back," Lors began and felt silly. He wondered vaguely how she had known about him and his being a spaceman. She came into the room and up to where he stood, her eyes boring into his. "Why did you bring him back? You could have come back by yourself and continued the whole thing." The realization of her words dawned upon him slowly and he blinked. "You _know_ about me? How..." "I'll tell you later. Why did you bring him back?" "You want him, don't you? It couldn't work out. Any fool can see that." He reached out and gripped her shoulders firmly. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way, Beth. It was all supposed to go like clockwork; we never figured on the scout ship being wrecked, and I never figured on falling in love with you..." "That's why you brought him back? Because you love me?" He nodded, trying vainly to brush aside the trembling emotion that lifted within him at the touch of her flesh. It was a weird feeling. "I thought about taking his place, Beth. I thought about it - but I knew it wouldn't work. It was a half crazy thing in the beginning. I ... I'm sorry." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Don't be. I'm not the least bit sorry, but I'm glad I know the truth. Now it doesn't seem so ridiculous - Brice disappearing into thin air." She looked about the room. "Where is he?" "Dead." "Dead?" Her eyes widened. Lors nodded. "I brought your husband back against my Commander's orders. When I tried to get Brice out of the hospital, he went berserk and began shooting things up. One of the spacers killed him." "Poor Nolan," she whispered and he could see the tears welling in her eyes. Then she looked at him sharply. "You acted against orders?" He nodded again. "What will happen to you?" "Nothing. It'll all come out all right. But, Beth, how did you know? Who told you about this?" "I did." Lors whirled about, his eyes swinging against those of the husky blond in the dress suit who stood in the doorway of the cabin. Automatically, his hand dropped toward the pistol at his side, but the blond stopped him. "Don't bother with that, Lors," he grinned. "I'm not about to draw." "Who are you," Lors demanded. "Here, I'm Cartwell, of the Secret Service. But actually I'm Firstspacer Nesso of the 6th. Terran Command." "You told her?" Lors asked, amazed. The blond nodded. "I had to. I came here to check on Brice and found her ready to call the police because first Nolan had disappeared and then you had. I had to think of something to keep her quiet, and the only thing I could think of was the truth. I'm a lousy agent," he added grinning. Lors nodded and bit his lower lip. "How do things stand now?" He asked. "Not too bad," Cartwell told him. "I've made arrangements to have the wrecked ship hauled out of the area for study. This will be hush-hush for awhile, then left to dissolve of itself. Everyone will forget it..." "What about Brice?" Cartwell pursed his lips. "That was a rough break, but unavoidable. We can cover up by saying that he was searching the wooded area with the rescue squads and apparently became lost. After searching and finding nothing, we can let the people draw their own conclusions." "Risky," Lors told him. "It'll work, unless you have a better idea." Lors shook his head. "You can handle things down here, Cartwell. I have my own problems up there." He pointed at the ceiling to indicate the starship. "And I'd better get Danson's uniform off and move." Beth caught has arm. "Let him keep it, Lors. It won't get into the wrong hands. I promise."