Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 Read Online Free PDF Page A

Buckalew had left the room. He went to a locker and took from it an
electro-automatic pistol. Thrusting this into his girdle, he went back to the
balcony.
                WELL,
the arbiter of Pulambar society was set on getting his blood, thought Stover.
Mace Maibrook, starver of the poor, killer of the thirsty, bully and snob and
tyrant, might think the quarrel had started from a trifle, but Stover’s
unpleasant experience of the afternoon, coupled with the insult to Bee MacGowan
and perhaps stirred up by drink and joy-lamp, had helped launch that blow in
Malbrook’s face. Now since death threatened him, it was imperative that he
strike first.
                 A
flying car swooped close, and Stover sprang aboard. “You know where Mace
Malbrook lives?” he asked the pilot.
                 “Who
doesn’t? Are you a friend of his, sir?”
                 “I’m
an enemy of his — the man who’s going to kill him,” replied Stover. “Take me to
his place at once.”
                 “Sure
thing,” chuckled the pilot, plainly wondering what sort of joke this glittering
customer was pleased to make.
                 Malbrook
lived in a broad central tower of Pulambar , one of the four or five tallest, proudly
aloof from the others. Stover disembarked on a terraced balcony.
                 A
jointed robot servitor tried to halt him, but a shove of his big hand swept the
stupid thing clanking clumsily aside. He burst into a reception hall, richly
and garishly furnished. Before an inner door sprawled something, another robot,
its silvery body clad in the white coat of a valet. It was quite still and
limp, the front of its glass face-lamp broken. Somebody else had been here, and
in a nasty mood.
                 Stover
stepped across the metal carcass, up a hall and into a lighted room beyond. He
came face to face with Brome Fielding, who lounged on a settle outside a heavy
metal panelway.
                 “Where’s
Malbrook?” demanded Stover.
                 Fielding
jerked his head at the panel. “Inside his private rooms. I think Prrala’s with him, trying to talk him out of the duel. No use your
trying the same thing; it’s beyond apologies now.” Fielding’s eyes shifted to
the pistol-butt at Stover’s waist. “Why are you carrying that gun?”
                 “It’s
for Malbrook,” said Stover. “Who smashed the robot outside?”
                 “You
mean Malbrook’s valet? I posted him there to keep people out. Phogor tried to
get in with that stepdaughter, and one or two others.”
                 “The
valet’s wrecked,” informed Stover. “Get out of my way. I’m going in after
Malbrook.”
                 Fielding
made a snatch at Stover’s gun, and the young Earthman dispassionately hooked a
fist to his jaw. The fellow spun around and crumpled in a corner. Stover
knocked on the panel ringingly.
                 “Open
up, Malbrook,” he called. “Either let me in, or come out. It’s Stover. If we’re
going to fight, let’s do it now.”
                 Silence, for perhaps five seconds. Then:
                 A
thunderous crash of sound and force rocked the apartment around like a skiff on
a hurricane sea. Stover was hurled backward, the metal door upon him. He fell,
wriggled out from under the slap, and came groggily to his feet. Where the door
had been set was now an oblong of murky light. He faced it, pistol in hand.
Whatever had happened wasn’t enough to kill him. Let Malbrook show his head.
                 “Clumsy
work!” he cried in challenge. “I’m still all in one piece. Show yourself, and
we’ll finish this business.”
                 Fielding
was getting up, shaky and half-stunned. “What — what — ” he mumbled.
                 “Explosion,”
said Stover. “Inside. Your friend