But they both watched the cluster until it had whirled on out of sight. And neither eye nor instrument nor Vernon’s probing mind could distinguish any sign of life.
CHAPTER VIII
Titan lay below them in the Saturn-glow, under the fantastic glory of the Rings. A bitter, repellent world of jagged peaks and glimmering plains of poison snow. The tiny life-raft dropped toward it, skittering nervously as it hit the thin atmosphere. Hyrst clung hard to the handholds, trying not to retch. He was not habituated to space anyway, and the skiff had been bad enough. Now, without any hull around him and nothing but a curved shield in front of him, he felt like an ant on a flying leaf.
“I don’t like it either.” Shearing said. “But it gives us a fifty-fifty chance of getting through unnoticed. Radar usually isn’t looking for anything so small.”
“I understand all the reasons,” Hyrst said. “It’s my stomach that’s obtuse.”
He could make out the pattern of the refinery now, a million miles of vertigo below him. The Lazarite ship was somewhere up and out behind them, hiding in the Rings. The trick had worked with Bellaver out there in the Belt, and they hoped now that it would work with Bellaver’s observers on Titan. There was no need for any fake explosions this time, to give the impression of destruction. Secrecy was the watch-word, all lights out and jet-blasts muffled to a spark. Later, when Hyrst and Shearing had accomplished their mission, the ship would drop down fast and take them off, with the Titanite, before any patrol craft would have time to arrive.
They hoped.
The buildings of the refinery were dark and cold, drifted out of shape by an accumulation of the thin, evil snow. The spiderweb of roads had faded from the plain, and the landing field was smooth and unmarked. Around its perimeter the six stiff towers of the hoists stood up like lonely sentinels, hooded and cloaked.
Hyrst felt a sudden tightening of his throat, and this was a thing he had not expected. A refinery on Titan was hardly a thing to be sentimental about. But it was bound up so intimately with other things, with hopes for a future that was now far behind him, with plans for Elena and the kids that were now a cruel mockery, with friendly memories of Saul and Landers, now long dead, that he could not look at it unmoved.
“Let’s try again,” said Shearing quietly. “If we could locate the Titanite definitely it might make all the difference. We’ll hardly have time to search all six of the bins.”
Glad of the distraction, Hyrst tried. He linked his mind to Shearing’s and they probed with this double probe, one after the other, the six hoists and the bins beneath them, while the raft fell whistling down the air.
It was the same as all the tries before. The bins had been empty for more than a decade, but the residual radiation was still hot enough to present a luminous haze to the eyes of the mind, fogging everything around it.
“Wait a minute,” Hyrst said. “Let’s use our wits. Look at the way those hoists are placed, in a wide crescent. Now if I was MacDonald, coming in from the mountains with a load of Titanite, and I wanted not to be seen, which one would I pick?”
“Either One or Six,” said Shearing, without hesitation. “They’re the farthest away from the buildings.”
“But Number Six is at the west end of the crescent, and to reach it you would have to go clear across the landing field.” He pointed mentally to Number One. “I’ll bet on that one. Shall we give it another try?”
They did. This time, for a fleeting second, Hyrst thought he had something.
“So did I,” said Shearing. “Sort of down under and behind.”
“Yes,” said Hyrst. “Look out!” His involuntary cry was caused by the sudden collision of the life-raft with a cloud. The vapor was very thick, and after the cruel clarity of space it made Hyrst feel that he was smothering. Shearing jockeyed the raft’s meagre controls, and in a minute or two they were below the cloud and spiralling down toward the landing field. It was snowing.
“Good,” said Shearing. “We’ll hope it keeps up.”
* * * *
They landed close to Number One Hoist and floundered rapidly through the shallow drifts, carrying some things. The hatch had been sealed with a plastic spray to prevent corrosion, and it took them several minutes to get it open. Inside the tower it was pitch black, but they did not need lights. Their other senses showed them the worn metal treads of the steps quite clearly. In the upper chamber the indicator panels were dark and dead. Hyrst shivered inside his suit. He had been here so many times before, so long ago.
“Let’s get busy,” Shearing said.
They pulled on the rayproofs they had brought with them from the raft. Without power the lift was useless, but the skeleton cage, stripped of all its tools, was not too heavy for two strong men to swing clear of the shaft top. They made sure it would stay clear, and then sent down a light collapsible ladder. Hyrst slid down first into the smooth, round, totally unlighted hole, that had one segment of it open paralleling the machinery of the hoist.
“Take it carefully,” Shearing said, and slid after him.
Clumsy in vac-suit and rayproof, Hyrst descended the ladder with agonizing slowness. Every impulse cried out for haste, but he knew if he hurried he would wind up at the bottom of the shaft as dead as MacDonald. The banging and knocking of their passage against the metal wall made a somber, hollow booming in that enclosed space, and it seemed to Hyrst that the silent belts and cables of the hoist hummed a little in sympathy. It was probably only the blood humming in his own ears.
“See anything yet?”
“No.”
The vast strange glowing of the bin grew brighter as they approached it. The hoist was still “hot,” and it glowed too, but nothing like the concentration in the bin.
“Even with rayproofs, we can’t stay close to that too long.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to. MacDonald was only human, and the bin was full then. He couldn’t have stayed long either.”
“See anything yet?”
“Nothing but fog. When you hit bottom, better use your light.”
At long last Hyrst felt the bottom of the shaft under his boots. He stood aside from the ladder and switched on his belt lamp. In this case the physical eyes were better than the mental, being insensitive to radiation. Instantly the gears and cams of the feeder assembly sprang into sharp relief on the open side of the shaft. Shearing stumbled down off the ladder and switched on his own light.
“Where was it we thought we saw something?”
“Down under and behind.” Hyrst turned slowly around, questing. The shaft was unbroken except by the repair opening. He climbed through it, with some difficulty, because nobody was supposed to climb through it and the machinery was placed for easy access with extension tools from the lift. The bin itself was now directly opposite them, a big hopper cut deep in the solid rock and serving the feeder by simple gravity. The feeder pretty well filled its own rocky chamber. A place might have been found beside it for something not too big, but the first man who came down on the lift would have seen it whether he was looking for it or not.
Shearing pointed. A dark opening pierced the rock at one side. Hyrst tried to see into it with his mental eyes, but the “fog” was so dense and bright—
He saw it, an unsubstantial ghostly shadow, but there. A square box some twenty feet down the tunnel.
Shearing drew a quick sharp breath “Let’s go.”
They went into the tunnel, crouching, scraping against the narrow sides.
“Look out for booby traps.”
“I don’t see any—yet.”
The